Blue Eyes and Electric Sheep
by Manningstar
Summary: In a post-apocalyptic world where caring for the few remaining animals is a duty, false animals and people can be hard to detect, and the state has a vested interest in child-producing marriages, Blaine is a bounty-hunter who finds himself falling for Kurt, who represents everything that is forbidden. Based on Blade Runner and Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep.
1. Secrets

A merry little surge of electricity piped by automatic alarm from the mood organ beside his bed awakened Blaine Anderson. He rose from the bed, stretching, the top of his plaid pajamas rising up and exposing a strip of taut skin just below his belly button.

"Uhhh," came a groan from the other side of the bed. Concerned, Blaine watched as his wife opened unmerry eyes, blinked, then shut them again with another groan.

"You set your Penfield too weak," he said to her as he walked to her side of the bed. He sat perched on the edge of the bed and stroked her long, black hair a few times. Patting her head affectionately, he continued. "I can reset it for you. You'll be awake and – "

"Keep you hand off my settings," she practically growled at him. "I don't want to be awake."

Blaine smiled with mock exasperation and bent over her as he softly explained, "You know, Tina, if you set the surge up high enough, you'll be glad you're awake. That's the whole point. At setting C it overcomes the threshold barring consciousness, as it does for me." He patted her bare shoulder in a friendly manner, not at all deterred by her prickly tone. After all, his setting had been at D.

"I know, Blaine. You don't have to treat me like I'm in Kindergarten," Tina grumbled, face still buried in the pillow. Unsure how to proceed, Blaine continued to pat her shoulder and she shifted on the bed beneath him. "Mmmm, that feels good. Don't stop."

Blaine patted her shoulder a few more times and gave it a soft squeeze. Just as he was about to stand up, Tina rolled over in the bed and wrapped her arms around him. "I won't need the mood organ to wake me up if you would just stay here a minute and kiss me." Blaine stiffened in her arms, but she tugged on his shoulders persistently until he bent down slightly and pressed their lips together in a dry kiss. Tina immediately opened her lips and began kissing Blaine aggressively. "Come on, Blainey-days. Stay in bed with me. Call in sick."

Tina sucked Blaine's bottom lip between hers, tugging hard. When she ran a hand up Blaine's thigh, he stiffened and pulled away, standing up and stepping out of her grasp. "I don't have time for that right now, Tina. We both know I have to work."

"Don't know what I was expecting," Tina mumbled, pulling the covers over her head. Blaine thought he heard the words "loveless marriage."

"What did you say?" Blaine demanded.

Tina sat up, throwing the covers down to her lap. "I said, 'I don't want your crude cop's hands on me, anyway.'"

Blaine was startled by her obvious lie. "I'm not a cop," he said sharply. He felt irritated now, although he hadn't dialed for it.

"You're worse," Tina said, leveling him with a challenging stare. "You're a murderer hired by the cops."

"I've never killed a human being in my life." Blaine had bypassed irritated and was now feeling downright hostile.

Tina smiled at him fakely and said, "Just those poor andys."

"I notice you've never hesitated to spend the bounty money I bring home."

"That's not fair," Tina said, watching Blaine closely. "You know I would work if I could. But there's not much call for midwives when anyone who gets pregnant is automatically shipped off to Mars. I'm stuck, Blaine. I can't work and I can't start a family." Tina's voice became louder and more strident as she continued, "And every day you go out there and – and what if we never can start a family, Blaine? Don't you ever think about that?"

"We've been through this before," Blaine said, exasperated. "I can't emigrate because of my job – "

"Well, isn't that convenient. Your job. It's your answer to everything, isn't it?" Tina raised her voice until she was practically hurling the words, dripping with sarcasm and snark, toward Blaine. "Why do I have to give up my career? Your job. Why do I have to sit around here day after day with nothing to do? Your job. Why are you home so late every night? Your job. Why do you never have time for sex? Your damn job. Why can't we even have a real animal? Because your damn job doesn't pay enough money."

"Hey, no. I can't take all the blame for us having that fake electric sheep upstairs instead of having the real thing." Blaine strode to the console of his mood organ. Scanning the controls he continued, "I've worked so hard, working my way up and earning a good amount of money through the years. You want a job? How about doing a better one managing the household expenses?" Blaine hesitated, fingers hovering above the controls. He was caught between dialing for a suppressant (which would abolish his mood of rage) or a stimulant (which would make him irked enough to win the argument).

"If you dial for more venom," Tina said, eyes glued to Blaine, "then I'll dial the same. I'll dial the maximum and you'll see a fight that makes every argument we've had up to now seem like nothing. Dial and see. Just try me." She rose swiftly, loped to the console of her own mood organ and stood glaring at him.

Blaine sighed, defeated by her threat. "I'll dial what's on my schedule for today." Examining the schedule for January 3, 2081, he saw that a businesslike professional attitude was called for. "If I dial by schedule," he said warily, "will you agree to do the same?"

"My schedule for today lists a six-hour self-accusatory depression," Tina said, examining her nails.

"What? Why did you schedule that?" It defeated the whole purpose of the mood organ. "I didn't even know you could set it for that," he said gloomily.

"I was sitting here one afternoon watching television and that awful commercial came on. You know, the one I hate, for Mountibank lead codpieces. And I was thinking about how we're still young. We might still have a chance to have children if we emigrated – "

"But I can't," Blaine said, "not now. Because of my j – ", the unspoken word hanging in the air heavily between them.

"Yes, I know that," Tina said, rolling her eyes. "That's not the point of what I was saying. Let me finish."

"Okay," Blaine conceded, holding his hands up in a conciliatory fashion.

"You know I can't stand that commercial," Tina continued, "can't stand thinking about what we don't have right now. What we might never have," her voice trailed off and she stared into the distance for a moment. Blaine dug his fingernails into his palms, willing himself to stay silent until she continued. "I just wanted to think. So I turned off the television and I heard the building. This building. I heard the – ", she gestured.

"The empty apartments," Blaine said heavily. Sometimes, when he lay awake late at night, he heard them. Although really, a half-full apartment building like theirs is considered a very high population density these days. Further out, in what would have been considered the suburbs before the war, there were building that were completely empty. Or so Blaine had heard. Like most people, he didn't venture out to any of those buildings himself. He had no desire to experience the soul-crushing emptiness and silence first-hand.

"Yes," Tina nearly whispered, seeing that Blaine understood. "When I heard those empty apartments, my Penfield mood organ setting was a 382 – peaceful contentment. I had just dialed it before turning on the TV. I was thinking about my regrets and then I heard that silence. I should have been sad. Devastated. Despairing. Intellectually, I was aware of the absence of life and I could remember the horrors of the war and its aftermath. I was thinking about all those empty apartments and what that means…but all I could feel was gratitude that we could afford a Penfield mood organ and that I didn't have to feel badly about all the death, the emptiness, the void in my own life. I know you probably don't really understand this. But back before the war, having your thoughts not match your feelings would have been considered a sign of a serious mental illness. Lack of appropriate affect, I think they called it. So I sat down in front of the mood organ console and spent the entire morning hunting through the settings until I found one for despair," she beamed triumphantly, as though this were something to be proud of. "So I put it on my schedule twice a month. I think that's an appropriate amount of time to feel hopeless about everything, about staying here on Earth after everybody who's smart has emigrated, don't you?"

"But Tina," Blaine admonished, stepping toward her, his brow wrinkled with concern, "a mood like that, you're apt to stay in it, not dial your way out. Despair like that is self-perpetuating. I worry about you. What if you can't get out of it? What if you hurt yourself?"

"Don't worry about that, Blaine," Tina said sleekly. "I program an automatically resetting after a few hours. A 481. Awareness of the manifold possibilities open to me in the future; new hope that – "

"I know 481," he interrupted. He had dialed that combination many times; he relied on it greatly. "Listen," he said, taking her hand in his and petting it lightly, as though her very skin were precious to him. "Even with an automatic cutoff like that, it's still dangerous to go into a depression. Please forget what you've scheduled and I'll forget mine. We can dial a 104 and experience it together and then you can stay in it and I'll go back to my usual businesslike attitude. That way, I'll want to go up to the roof and check on our electric sheep and then head to the office. And I won't have to worry that you're here brooding alone with no TV.

Blaine walked into the living room, grabbed the remote from the coffee table, and clicks the television to life.

Tina stumbled out of the bedroom behind him and grumbled, "But I can't stand television before breakfast."

"Then dial 888," Blaine replied over his shoulder. "The desire to watch television no matter what's on."

"Uggh," groaned Tina. "I don't want to dial any mood right now."

"Then just dial 3," said Blaine practically.

"I can't dial a setting for the desire to dial," Tina practically shouted in frustration. "The whole point is that I don't want to dial anything right now. I want to dial 3 least of all."

Blaine ignored Tina and flipped through the channels on the television to find the news. "Looks like heavy fallout today," boomed the jovial newscaster, pointing to a map behind him showing a large red cloud over the entire city. "It will be getting steadily more pronounced until about noon before it begins to taper off, so for those of you venturing out – "

"I'm sorry," Tina said, wrapping her arms around Blaine's middle from behind and pressing her forehead against his back. "I'll dial whatever you want, okay?"

Blaine grinned and pulled out of Tina's arms. He turned and placed a brief kiss on the top of her head before walking back to her mood organ and dialing a 722, acknowledgement of spouse's superior wisdom in all matters.

After a rushed breakfast, he finished getting dressed, including snapping on his Ajax model Mountibank lead codpiece, a raincoat and a hat to protect against the persistent, gray dust falling from the sky. The legacy of World War Terminus had diminished in potency. Those who couldn't survive the dust had perished long ago. The dust was weaker now and it no longer threatened death to the strong survivors. But it still degenerated minds and reproductive organs. So far, he and Tina had continued to pass the regular, mandatory medical tests that show that they are able to reproduce within the limits dictated by law. Any month, however, the exam by the San Francisco Police Department doctors could say otherwise. Every month, new specials were created out of regulars by the omnipresent dust. Each day the message blared loud and clear from the television, radio, and print ads: "Emigrate or degenerate: the choice is yours." He knew this was true, but at the same time, Blaine wasn't sure that he wanted to emigrate to Mars. He wasn't really sure whether he wanted to have children, even though he knew Tina did. It was easier to just point to his job and let that make the decision for him. After all, his job only exists on Earth, so emigrating would mean finding a new profession.

Fully dressed, Blaine ascended to the covered roof pasture where his electric sheep "grazed" in simulated contentment, bamboozling the other tenants of the building. Of course, some of their animals were probably electronic circuitry fakes, too. But no one would ever ask. Nothing could be more impolite. To ask, "is your sheep genuine?" would be a worse breach of etiquette than asking if someone's own hair, teeth or internal organs would test out authentic.

The owner of the adjoining pasture, Finn Hudson, hailed him. He, like Blaine, had dressed for work but had stopped off on the way to check on his animal.

"Blaine, hi!" said Finn jovially. "Guess what? My horse is pregnant." He gestured proudly toward the big Arabian, which stood staring emptily into space. "Isn't that awesome, dude?"

It took Blaine a moment to swallow down his jealousy and school his face into a pleasant mask. "That's so great, Finn. I'm so happy for you. But, um, how did she get pregnant? There aren't any stud horses nearby, are there?" Blaine had reached his sheep. Its alert eyes were fixed on him in case he had brought any oats. The alleged sheep contained an oat-tropic circuit; at the sight of such cereals it would scramble up convincingly and amble over.

"Naw, dude. You're right. No other horses around. But I bought some high quality fertilizing plasma – I ordered it online. I had to inject it myself, though. That was kind of gross." Finn grimaced at the memory for a moment before a dopey grin returned to his face. "That guy from the State Animal Husbandry Board suggested it. Remember when he was out here to inspect Judy? They really want her to have a foal. She's an unmatched superior."

"Would you consider selling the colt?" Blaine asked. He pulled out his phone and did a quick search on the Sydney's Animal Supply app for colt, subtype: Arabian, class: superior. "Sydney's says $5,000." Blaine ran a quick calculation in his head. "I could give you $500 a month for ten months. Full catalog value."

"No, man. Check you app again. It's in blue, right?"

Blaine looked at the phone and saw the price was indeed in blue.

Finn continued, "That's what the price would have been, if any are available. But they're out of stock. That's because no one is going to part with an Arabian horse. And you know why, before World War Terminus, there were literally thousands of – "

"But then you'd have two horses," Blaine said petulantly. "That would be unfair for you to have two when other people have none. It goes against Mercerism."

"Seriously? Come on, Blaine. Even I know better than that," Finn protested. "It doesn't go against Mercerism to have two animals or even more. Lots of people have more than one animal. My boss has two donkeys and you know that Mr. Motta guy, the protective wear tycoon– he has five animals. They just ran that story about his duck in the paper..." Both men looked into the distance trying to imagine such riches. "Besides, you have your sheep," said Finn. "If you didn't have any animal at all I could see your argument about it not being empathetic for me to refuse to sell you the colt." As Finn continued to babble, Blaine bent down and scratched at the wool on the fake sheep's side, searching for the control panel. "I think everyone in the building has some kind of animal. Even Sandy Ryerson has a cat, or at least he says he does. I don't know if anyone's ever been in his apartment – oh shit!"

Finn uttered that last phrase just after Blaine popped open the electric circuitry panel on the sheep, revealing his secret to his neighbor. "Oh, Blaine," Finn said sadly. "I'm so sorry, man. Has it always been this way?"

"No," Blaine said, snapping the panel shut again and smoothing the wool back into place over it. "We had a real sheep when we first moved here. Tina's parents gave it to us when they emigrated. About two years ago, he got sick. Do you remember when I had the vet over to look at him? It was tetanus. A piece of rusty wire got stuck in one of the bales of hay and he chewed on it, cut the inside of his mouth, got an infection and died."

"That really sucks, man." Finn said sagely, giving Blaine a comforting pat on the arm.

"The vet suggested we could get an electric sheep to replace Groucho. So I sent the false animal company a picture of him and they made this. It's a good replica."

"Wow," Finn said, looking uncomfortable. "I can't imagine what it would be like to not have an animal."

"Well, I spend just as much time caring for it as I would if it was real," said Blaine defensively. "I feed it and clean up after it every day. And the false animal shop sends someone for regular tune-ups. They're called animal hospital something and the driver of the van even wears a white coat like a regular vet. So I think we've been able to fool everyone so far. But it's nerve wracking sometimes. When something goes wrong – like last month, when something happened with it's speaker and it wouldn't stop baaing – anyone who heard it would realize it was a mechanical breakdown." Blaine glanced at his watch and sucked in a sharp breath. "I'm going to be late. I better go."

Blaine walked toward his hovercar with broad strides, but Finn's voice stopped him in his tracks. "I won't tell anyone. About your sheep I mean."

Blaine turned and looked at Finn with a wistful smile. "Thanks. But I don't really know if it matters."

"It does," Finn says authoritatively. "Not caring for an animal. People would look down on you. I mean, it's not illegal anymore, like it was right after World War T, but it's still frowned upon."

"It's not like I don't want to care for an animal," Blaine insisted. "I want one so much. But on a city employee's salary…" He wouldn't be able to afford it, even on a payment plan. Not unless he were to get lucky in his work again. Like that time three years ago when he was able to retire two andys in one month.

"I can understand if you can't afford another sheep right now," Finn said carefully. "But why don't you get another animal. Like a cat. They're cheap."

"No, I don't want a house pet. I want a big animal," insisted Blaine. "If I could afford it, I would get another sheep. Or a steer. Or what you have. A horse."

The bounty from five andys would do it, he realized. Five thousand dollars, over and above his salary. If he could retire five andys, he would find someone who would sell him a horse, even if the listing on Sydney's was in blue. But first the andys would have to come to Earth. And they would have to come to his particular jurisdiction. If they land outside of the greater San Francisco area then another bounty hunter would be given the opportunity. Blaine sighed and shook his head. Even if five andys somehow made their way to San Francisco, Blaine still wouldn't be able to go after them. He wasn't the senior bounty hunter with the department. Shannon Beiste would have to retire or die first.

Finn pulled Blaine from his thoughts with a hand on his arm. Finn had closed the distance between them while Blaine was in his reverie. Finn laughingly jokes, "You could buy a mouse. Or a cricket. They're cheap."

Finn continued to grip Blaine's arm and gave it a squeeze then jiggled it, trying to force a response to his teasing. Blaine looked up at Finn and smiled in spite of himself. Finn let go of his arm, but didn't back away. Blaine had to crane his neck to meet Finn's eyes. The height difference stirred something primal within him and he had to bite his tongue to keep from stupidly saying, "You're really tall." Silently, Blaine stared into Finn's eyes and grinned, feeling his heart pound against his chest and feeling a blush rise to his cheeks.

"Um, are you okay?" Finn asked, breaking the spell.

Blaine jumped back as if from an electric shock, putting a socially acceptable space between them. Startled and angry with himself for first revealing the secret of the electric sheep and then almost revealing another, much more dangerous secret about himself, Blaine shook his head. Gathering up all the venom he could muster, Blaine said, "Your horse could die, you know. Get a scratch from a wire, like Groucho did, and get tetanus."

"What the hell, man?" Finn said, taking a step back.

Blaine just glared at him and said darkly, "You could come home from work today and she could be lying on the ground, dead, her feet in the air, like a bug. Like what you said. A cricket."

"I'm sorry if I offended you," said Finn nervously.

Blaine plucked open the door to his hovercar and resolutely kept himself from glancing back at his neighbor. Instead, he focused his thoughts on his work and the day ahead.


	2. New Neighbor

In a giant, empty, decaying building which had once housed thousands, a single TV set yammered into an empty room.

This ownerless ruin had, before World War Terminus, been well-maintained. It was in the suburbs of San Francisco, just a train ride away from downtown. It once had been filled with the noise and bustle and opinions of thousands of people. Now it lay nearly empty, most of the previous inhabitants had long since died or emigrated. Mostly the former, as the war had taken a bigger toll than the Pentagon had first predicted.

The initial bombs dropped killed millions in several major cities across the world almost instantaneously. With most of the people who were directly involved in starting the war taken out in that set of explosions, the rest of the world didn't focus on who started the war or whether anyone had won. No one had predicted the blanket of deadly dust that settled over the entire planet. First, the owls had died. It seemed almost comical, the fat, fluffy white birds lying here and there, in yards and on streets. Coming out no earlier than twilight as they had while alive, the birds had escaped notice. Midieval plagues had manifested themselves in a similar way, in the form of many dead rats. This plague, however, descended from above.

After the owls, of course, the other birds followed, and the very old, very young, and very weakest of people. But by then the mystery had been grasped and understood. A meager colonization program had been underway before the war, but now that the sun had ceased to shine on Earth the colonization Entered an entirely new phase. In connection with this a weapon of war, the Synthetic Freedom Fighter, had been modified. Able to function on an alien world the humanoid robot – strictly speaking, the organic android – had become the mobile donkey engine of the colonization program. Under U.N. law, each emigrant automatically received an android subtype of his choice, and, by 2079, the variety of subtypes passed all understanding, in the manner of American automobiles of the 1960s.

That had been the ultimate incentive of emigration. The android servant as carrot, the radioactive fallout as stick. The U.N. had made it easy to emigrate, difficult if not impossible to stay. Loitering on Earth potentially meant finding oneself abruptly classed as biologically unacceptable, a menace to the pristine heredity of the race. Once pegged as special, a citizen, even if accepting sterilization, dropped out of history. And yet, people here and there declined to migrate. Logically, every regular should have emigrated already. Perhaps, deformed as it was, Earth remained familiar, to be clung to. Or perhaps those who stayed held onto a hope that someday the dust would lift. In any case, thousands remained, most clustered in urban centers where they could physically see each other and take heart at their mutual presence. Those appeared to be the relatively sane ones. And, in dubious addition to them, occasional peculiar entities remained in the virtually abandoned suburbs.

Brittany S. Pierce, being yammered at by the television in her living room while she shaved her legs in the bathroom, was one of those. She hadn't always lived in this part of the country. San Francisco and its suburbs were nearly free of dust just a few years ago, and Brittany had moved here with a large group of people who wandered from one region to the next, avoiding the clouds of dust as they moved. When the dust had reached San Francisco, most of the group had either died, emigrated, or moved away. For some reason, Brittany had stayed.

The TV set shouted, "Either as body servants or tireless field hands, the custom-tailored humanoid robot, designed especially for your unique needs, for you and you alone – given to you on your arrival absolutely free, equipped fully, as specified by you before your departure from Earth; this loyal, trouble –free companion in the greatest, boldest adventure contrived by humankind in modern history will provide – " It continued on and on.

In the bathroom, Brittany perched with one foot on the edge of the sink and continued to scrape at her leg. Startled by a pattering noise behind her, she stopped her hand just in time before nicking herself and turned toward the open door. "Oh, Lord Tubbington, it's just you. What did I tell you about not sneaking up on me when I'm shaving?"

Lord Tubbington nearly filled the width of the doorway with his large frame. He was easily three times the size of a normal cat and Brittany could feel the floor vibrate beneath her feet with his purring.

"Am I late for work?" she asked, studying the oversized tabby carefully as it blinked its eyes slowly three times. "Oh, good. I'm glad I still have a few minutes. And yes, I know. I need to replace that television. I get sick of only being able to get the government channel, too."

"Let's hear from Ms. Marley Rose," the TV announcer suggested from the living room. "A recent immigrant to mars, Ms. Rose in an interview taped live in New New York had this to say. Ms. Rose, how would you compare your life back on contaminated Earth with your new life here in a world rich with every imaginable possibility?"

A pause, and then a high, sweet female voice said, "I think what I noticed most was the dignity."

"The dignity, Ms. Rose?" the announcer asked.

"Yes," Ms. Rose of New New York, Mars, said. "It's a hard thing to explain. Having a servant you can depend on in these troubled times…I find it reassuring."

Brittany toweled her legs dry, gently pushed Lord Tubbington out of the way and walked into the living room in time to catch the cheery announcer continue the interview. The announcer was a broad shouldered, brown haired man with a bland face. Ms. Rose, the interviewee, had long brown hair, clear skin and blue eyes. She was stunning. Brittany found herself lingering with her finger on the power switch, mesmerized.

"Back on earth, Ms. Rose, did you worry about finding yourself classified, ahem, as a special?"

"Oh, yes. I worried all the time. I was so nervous about losing my mental or reproductive abilities, I could barely eat. I even fainted a few times. Of course, once I emigrated that worry vanished forever." Marley Rose smiled, showing a row of perfect, pearly teeth.

Brittany turned toward the large cat and gestured at the screen. "She's pretty, isn't she, Lord Tubbington? It's a good thing she saved her reproductive organs by moving to Mars. Think of all the gorgeous babies she could have." She paused, head tilted as if listening to a response from the animal. "Thank you, Lord Tubbington. That's so sweet that you think I'm pretty, too. Of course, there's no way I'll be able to pass that along to anyone. Guess that worry the pretty lady on the television was talking about has gone away for me, too, hasn't it? And I didn't even have to emigrate."

Brittany had been a special now for over a year, and not merely in regard to the distorted genes she carried. Worse still, she had failed to pass the minimum mental faculties test, which made her in popular parlance a chickenhead. Upon her the contempt of two planets descended. However, despite this, she survived. She had her job, driving a truck for a false-animal repair firm; the New Directions Pet Hospital and her musical dreamer of a boss, William Schuester, accepted her as human and this she appreciated. He sang a lot, and sometimes she joined him, even adding in some dance moves, which brought her a lot of joy. And if she sometimes said things that didn't make a lot of sense, he ignored it without comment. And there were chickenheads infinitely stupider than Brittany, who couldn't hold jobs at all. They remained in custodial institutions with quaint names like "Institute of Special Trade Skills of America," the word "special" having to get in there somehow, as always.

She walked back toward the bathroom door, where the oversized cat still stood, tracking her with silent eyes. She stroked between its ears and scratched at its chin. "I don't think I'd like Mars, anyway," she said defiantly. "I'm sure they wouldn't let me take you there. And you're my favorite person in the whole world, even though you're a cat." Acquiring Lord Tubbington was another perk of the job at the New Directions Pet Hospital. He was meant to be a false animal replica for a family that lost their cat, but the manufacturer had gotten the specs all wrong. Mr. Schuester had laughed when he saw the animal – easily three feet tall and almost as wide, with at least two chins and several rolls of excess fat around the middle. The manufacturer agreed to make a new model and Mr. Schuester was ready to scavenge the first attempt for parts, but Brittany had cried and begged for the animal to be spared. Mr. Schuester gave the cat to her and Lord Tubbington had moved in with Brittany that very day.

"And your fiancée, Ms. Rose, felt no protection in wearing a clumsy radiation-proof lead codpiece?" the announcer continued.

"My fiancée," Ms. Rose began, but Brittany pressed the button and the TV set faded to black.

Silence. It flashed from the woodwork and the walls. It smote her with an awful, total power, as if generated by a vast mill. It rose from the floor, up out of the tattered gray wall-to-wall carpeting. It unleashed itself from the broken and semi-broken appliances in the kitchen, the dead machines that hadn't worked since before Brittany moved in. From the useless floor lamp in the living room it oozed out, meshing with the empty and wordless decent of itself from the ceiling. The silence emerged from every object within her vision. She experienced it as something alive. The silence of the world could not rein back its greed. It slipped over everything, seeking to strangle out every last living being and working machine until it's rule was absolute.

She wondered if the others who had remained on Earth experienced the void this way. Or was it perhaps peculiar to her own inept sensory apparatus, something only a special, damaged in the particular way she was, could experience? Interesting question, Brittany thought. But whom could she compare notes with? She could share her feelings with Lord Tubbington and while she did often feel that he could understand or even that he was responding in his own way, this was not a concept that his limited vocabulary of purrs and blinks could serve to discuss. It was at times like these that Brittany truly felt how alone she was in this deteriorating building of a thousand uninhabited apartments, which like all its counterparts, fell, day by day, into greater entropic ruin. Eventually everything within the building would merge, would be faceless and identical, mere pudding-like kipple piled to the ceiling of each apartment. And then, after that, the uncared-for building itself would settle into shapelessness, buried under the ubiquity of the dust. By then, naturally, she herself would be dead, another interesting event to anticipate as she stood here in her stricken living room alone with the lungless, all-penetrating, masterful silence.

Better, perhaps to turn the TV back on. But the ads, directed at the remaining regulars, angered her. They reminded her in a countless procession of ways that she, a special, wasn't wanted. Had no use. Could not, even if she wanted to, emigrate. So why listen to that? "Fuck them and their colonization," she blurted defiantly to Lord Tubbington, startling him out of the beginnings of a nap. "I hope a war gets started there and everybody who emigrated turns out to be special."

She strode quickly to the bedroom and finished getting dressed. Ready at last for work, she reached for the doorknob that opened into the unlit hall, then shrank back as she glimpsed the vacuity of the rest of the building. It lay in wait for her, out hear, the force which she had felt busily penetrating her apartment. God, she thought, and reshut the door. Needing something to steel herself before facing the echo of herself ascending the staircase through the empty building to the empty roof above, she crossed the living room to the black empathy box.

When she turned it on, the usual faint smell of negative ions surged from the power supply. She breathed in eagerly, already buoyed up. The screen glowed and a display in the upper right hand corner informed her that 23,215 people were currently logged in to the empathy site at this moment. She nearly sagged in relief as she grasped the handles. All at once she could hear the chatter of thousands of voices and feel the rush of dozens of different emotions, high and low, happy and sad, pensive and exuberant. The screen glowed and soon the familiar landscape appeared – a rocky, fir-tree-lined mountain path. She stepped forward, one foot in front of the other, making her way up the steep incline as the voices chattered in her head. They, and she, cared about one thing; the need to ascend. Step by step they moved forward as one. Higher, she thought as stones rattled downward under her feet. Today we are higher than yesterday. And tomorrow – she glanced up to view the ascent ahead. Impossible to make out the end. Too far. But it would come.

A rock, hurled at her, struck her arm She felt the pain. She half-turned and another rock sailed past her, missing her. It collided with the earth and the sound startled her. Who? she wondered, peering to see her tormentor. The old antagonists, manifesting themselves at the periphery of her vision; it, or they, had followed her up the hill. She rubbed the cut on her arm that the stone had left. In what way is this fair? Why am I up here alone like this, being tormented by something I can't even see? And then, within her, the mutual babble of everyone else in fusion broke the illusion of aloneness.

You felt it too, she thought. Yes, the voices answered. We got hit, on the left arm. It hurts like hell. Okay, she said. We better get started moving again. She resumed walking, and all of them accompanied her immediately.

Brittany stood, holding the two handles, experiencing herself as encompassing every other living thing, and then, reluctantly, she let go. It had to end, as always, and anyhow her arm ached and bled where the rock had struck it.

Releasing the handles she examined her arm, then made her way unsteadily to the bathroom of her apartment to wash the cut off. This was not the first wound she had received while in fusion practicing Mercerism. It probably would not be the last. But she knew she'd take the risk. She always had before. Feeling part of a whole was worth it.

Using a towel, she dried her damaged arm. And heard, muffled and far off, a TV set.

It's someone else in the building, she thought wildly, unable to believe it. Not my TV; that's off, and I can feel the floor vibrating. It's below, on another level entirely!

I'm not alone here anymore, she realized. Another resident ha moved in, taken one of the abandoned apartments. "Lord Tubbington," she called softly to the cat, "what do you do when a new resident moves in? Drop by and borrow something?" It didn't sound quite right, but she could not remember. This had not happened to her before, here or anywhere else she had lived. People moved out, people emigrated, but nobody ever moved in. The cat blinked twice slowly. "Yes, you're right," Brittany said brightly. "You don't borrow something. You bring them something. Like milk or flour or an egg – or specifically, their ersatz substitutes."

Looking in her refrigerator, she found a dubious cube of margarine. And with it, set off excitedly, her heart laboring, for the level below. I have to keep calm, she realized. Not let him know I'm a chickenhead. If he finds out I'm a chickenhead he won't talk to me; that's almost always the way it is for some reason. I wonder why?

She hurried down the hall.


	3. Opportunity

On his way to work, Blaine Anderson, as lord knew how many other people, stopped briefly to skulk about in front of one of San Francisco's larger pet shops, along animal row. In the center of the block-long display window an ostrich, in a heated clear-plastic cage, returned his stare. The bird, according to the info plaque attached to the cage, had just arrived from a zoo in Cleveland. It was the only ostrich on the west coast. The bird had a name that made Blaine smile – Pavarotti. It seemed like a sign that this ostrich should be his – he loved old music and often sang along while listening to this particular singer's greatest hits on his iPod. His smile faded as he stared grimly at the price tag. He then continued on to the Hall of Justice on Lombard Street and found himself fifteen minutes late to work.

As he unlocked his office door his superior Police Inspector Jake Puckerman, coffee-toned skin and hair shaved close to his head, sloppily dressed but wise-eyed and conscious of nearly everything of any importance, hailed him. "Meet me at nine-thirty in Shannon Beiste's office." Inspector Puckerman, as he spoke, flicked briefly through a clipboard of typed sheets. "Beiste," he continued, is in Mount Zion Hospital with a laser track through her spine. She'll be there for a month at least. Until they can get one of those new organic plastic spinal sections to take hold."

"What happened?" Blaine asked, chilled. The department's chief bounty hunter had been all right yesterday. Shannon had been joking with him as usual, barking out her usual garbled cowboy-like sayings and laughing, slapping at her own leg jovially. She had eaten her usual half of an ersatz substitute chicken for lunch and told tales from her football coaching days before the war. And as usual, at the end of the day she had zipped off in her hovercar to her apartment in the crowded high-prestige Nob Hill area of the city.

Puckerman muttered over his shoulder something about nine-thirty in Shannon's office and departed, leaving Blaine standing alone.

As he entered his own office, Blaine heard the voice of his secretary, Kitty Wilde, behind him. "Mr. Anderson, you know what happened to Ms. Beiste? She got shot." She followed him into the stuffy, closed-up office and set the air-filtering unit into motion.

"Yeah," he responded absently.

"It must have been one of those new, extra-clever andys the Sylvester-Hummel Association is turning out," Miss Wilde said. "Did you read over the company's brochures and the spec sheets? The Nexus-6 brain unit they're using now is capable of selecting within a field of two trillion constituents, or ten million separate neural pathways." Blaine ignored her, setting down his briefcase and starting up his computer with his back turned to the short, perky blonde. "You know, Blaine, sometimes I wonder how you even have this job."

"I know you desperately want my job, Kitty. But I'm not going anywhere," Blaine said flatly.

"But with Shannon Beiste out of commission and you possibly filling in for her, someone needs to do your job. Oh, never mind. I guess it's not really important enough to make sure that someone keeps that chair of yours warm. That is about all you do, isn't it Blaine?" Kitty says with false sweetness.

"You are such a bitch," said Blaine, almost fondly.

"That's what I aspire to be," Kitty replied, equally fondly. She lowered her voice. "You missed the video conference this morning. Chandler told me. It came through the switchboard exactly at nine."

"A call in?" Blaine asked.

Kitty said, "A call out by Mr. Puckerman to the W.P.O. in Russia. Asking them if they would be willing to file a formal written complaint with the Sylvester-Hummel Association's factory representative East."

"Jake still wants the Nexus-6 unit withdrawn from the market?" He felt no surprise. Since the initial release of its specifications and performance charts last August, most police agencies which dealt with escaped andys had been protesting. "The Russian police can't do any more than we can," he said. Legally, the manufacturers of the Nexus-6 brain unit operated under colonial law, their parent factory being on Mars. "We had better just accept the new unit as a fact of life," he said. "It's always been this way, with every improved brain unit that's come along. I remember the howls of pain when the Sudermann people showed their old T-14 back in '79. Every p9olice agency in the Western Hemisphere clamored that no test would detect its presence, in an instance of illegal entry here. As a matter of fact, for a while they were right." Over fifty of the T-14 android as he recalled had made their way by one means or another to Earth, and had not been detected for a period of time in some cases up to an entire year. But then the Voigt Empathy Test had been devised by the Cho Institute working in China. And no T-14 android – insofar, at least, as was known – had managed to pass that particular test.

"Want to know what the Russian police said?" Kitty asked, a wicked glint in her eye. "I know that, too."

Blaine said, "I'll find out from Jake Puckerman." He felt irritable. Office gossip annoyed him because it always proved better than the truth. And there was only so much of Kitty and her alternately cutesy and bitchy act that he could take. Seating himself at his desk he pointedly fished about in a drawer until Ms. Wilde, perceiving the hint, departed.

From the drawer he produced an ancient, creased manila envelope. Leaning back and tilting his chair up on the back two legs, he pulled out the contents of the envelope: the extant data on the Nexus-6.

A moment's reading vindicated Ms. Wilde's statement; the Nexus-6 did have two trillion constituents plus a choice within a range of ten million possible combinations of cerebral activity. In .45 of a second an android equipped with such a brain structure could assume any one of fourteen basic reaction-postures. Well, no intelligence test would trap an andy. But then, intelligence tests hadn't trapped an andy in years, not since the primordial, crude varieties of the early 2070s.

The Nexus-6 android types, Blaine reflected, surpassed all classes of human specials, and some regulars, in terms of intelligence. It was a crude type of evolution. In some ways, the servant had become more adroit than its master. But new scales of achievement, for example the Voigt-Kampff Empathy Test, had emerged as criteria by which to judge. An android, no matter how gifted as to pure intellectual capacity, could make no sense out of the fusion which took place routinely amoung the followers of Mercerism – an experience which he, and virtually everyone else – including subnormal chickenheads, managed with no difficulty.

He had wondered why an android bounced helplessly about when confronted by an empathy-measuring test. Intelligence, at least to some degree, could be found within every phylum and order including the arachnida. But the empathic faculty seemed to require an unimpaired group instinct. A solitary organism, such as a spider, would have no use for it. In fact, it would impede a spider's ability to survive because it would make the spider conscious of the desire to live on the part of its prey. Hence all predators would starve.

Empathy, he once had decided, must be limited to herbivores or at omnivores who could depart from a meat diet, as humans had done after the war. Because, ultimately, the empathic gift blurred the boundaries between hunter and victim, between the successful and the defeated. As in the fusion experience, everyone ascended together and faced the rocks of the oppressors together. It was like a biological insurance, but a double-edged one. As long as some creature experienced joy, then the condition for all the other creatures included a fragment of joy. However, if any living being suffered, ten for all the rest the shadow could not be entirely cast off. A herd animal like man would acquire a higher survival factor through this; an owl or a cobra would be destroyed.

Evidently the humanoid robot constituted a solitary predator.

Blaine liked to think of them that way. It made his job palatable. In retiring – killing – an andy he did not violate the rule of life laid down by Mercer. You shall kill only the killers, Mercer had told them the year empathy boxes first appeared on Earth. As Mercerism grew into a full theology, the concept of the killers grew with it. Rocks were thrown by unknown assailants, so it was never clear who or what the evil presence was. A Mercerite sensed evil without understanding it. Therefore a Mercerite was free to locate the nebulous presence of the killers wherever he saw fit. For Blaine Anderson, an escaped humanoid robot, which had killed its master, which had been equipped with an intelligence greater than that of many human beings, which had no regard for animals, which possessed no ability to feel empathic joy for another life form's success or grief at its defeat – that, for him, epitomized the killers.

Thinking about animals reminded him of the ostrich he had seen in the pet store. Seeing that he had time, he grabbed his phone and scrolled to the number for the Happy Dog Pet Shop. They can't really want that much for the ostrich, Blaine told himself. They expect you to haggle.

"Happy Dog Pet Shop," a man's voice declared. Animals bawled in the background.

"That ostrich you have in your display window," Blaine said, toying with the stapler on his desk. "What sort of a down payment would you need for that?"

"Let's see," the animal salesman said, groping for a pen and pad of paper. "One-third down," he figured. "May I ask, sir, if you're going to trade something in?"

Guardedly, Blaine said, "I – I haven't decided."

"Let's say we put the ostrich on a thirty-month contract," the salesman said. "At a low, low interest rate of six percent a month. That would make your monthly payment, after a reasonable down – "

"You'll have to lower the price you're asking," Blaine said. "Knock off two thousand and I won't trade anything in; I'll come up with cash." Shannon Beiste, he reflected, is out of commission. That could mean a great deal, depending on how many assignments show up during the coming month.

"Sir," the animal salesman said, "our asking price is already a thousand dollars under book. Check Sidney's. I'll hang on. I want you to see for yourself sir, that our price is fair."

Crap, Blaine thought. They're standing firm. However, just for the heck of it, he pulled up the Sidney's app and toggled through it to find ostrich comma male-female, old-young, sick-well, mint-used, and inspected the prices.

"Mint, male, young, well," the salesman informed him. "Thirty thousand dollars. We're exactly one thousand under book. Now, your down payment – "

"I'll think it over," Blaine said, "and call you back." He started to hang up.

"Your name, sir?" the salesman asked alertly.

"Frank Merriwell," Blaine said.

"And your email address, Mr. Merriwell? In case I'm not here when you call back?"

He made up an email address and ended the call. All that money, he thought. And yet, people buy them. Some people have that kind of money. Opening the office door a crack he makes sure that Kitty is busy at her desk and that no one is lurking in the hallway who might overhear his next call. He scrolled through his contacts again and dialed the number of the false animal shop at which he had gotten his ersatz sheep. On the screen, a man dressed like a vet appeared. "Dr. Schuester," the man declared.

"This is Blaine Anderson. How much is an electric ostrich?"

"Oh, I'd say we could fix you up for about eight hundred dollars. How soon did you want that delivery? We would have to make that for you from scratch. There's not that much call for – "

"I'm so sorry, but I have to go. I'll talk to you later," Blaine interrupted; nine-thirty had arrived. "Good by." He ended the call as he rose and headed toward Inspector Puckerman's door. Opening it, he nodded to his boss, who was on the phone. Seating himself he flipped through the specs on the Nexus-6, which he had brought with him, reading them over as Inspector Puckerman continued to talk on the phone.

Blaine felt depressed. And yet logically, because of Shannon's sudden disappearance from the workforce, he should be at least guardedly pleased.

Maybe I'm worried, Blaine thought, that what happened to Shannon will happen to me. An andy smart enough to laser an experienced veteran like her could probably take me, too. He examined this idea in his head, moving it around and peering at it from different angles, but that didn't seem to be it.

"I see you brought the info sheet on that new brain unit," Inspector Puckerman said, ending his call.

"Yes," Blaine said. "I heard about it on the grapevine. How many andys are involved and how far did Shannon get?"

"Eight to start with," Puckerman said, consulting his clipboard. "Shannon got the first two."

"And the remaining six are here in northern California?"

"As far as we know. Shannon thinks so. That was her that I was talking to. I have her notes; they were in her desk. She says all she knows is here." Puckerman tapped the bundle of paper. So far he did not seem inclined to pass the notes on to Blaine. For some reason, he continued to leaf through them himself, frowning and working his tongue in and out around the fringes of his mouth.

"I have nothing on my agenda," Blaine offered. "I'm ready to take over in Shannon's place."

Jake said thoughtfully, "Shannon used the Voigt-Kampff Altered Scale in testing out the individuals she suspected. You realize – you ought to anyhow – that this test isn't specific for the new brain unit. No test is. The Voigt scale, altered three years ago by Kampff, is all we have." He paused, pondering. "Shannon considered it accurate. Maybe it is. But I would suggest this, before you take off after these six." Again he tapped the pile of notes. "Fly to Seattle and talk with the Sylvester-Hummel Association people. Have them supply you with a representative sampling of types employing the new Nexus-6 unit."

"And put them through the Voigt-Kampff," Blaine said.

"It sounds so easy," Jake Puckerman said, half to himself.

"Pardon?"

Jake said, "I think I'll talk to the Sylvester-Hummel organization myself, while you're on your way." He eyed Blaine silently. Finally he grunted, gnawed on a fingernail and eventually decided on what he wanted to say. "I'm going to discuss with them the possibility of including several humans, as well as their new androids. But you won't know. It'll be my decision, in conjunction with the manufacturers. It should be set up by the time you get there." He abruptly pointed at Blaine, his face severe. "This is the first time you'll be acting as senior bounty hunter. Shannon knows a lot; she's got years of experience behind her."

"So do I," Blaine said tensely.

"You've only been with the department five years. Shannon has been working these cases twice as long. You've handled only the assignments that Shannon herself decided you could handle. But now you have six that she planned to retire herself. One of them managed to get her first. This one." Puckerman turned the notes around so that Blaine could see. "Azimio Adams," Puckerman said. "That's what it calls itself, anyhow. Assuming Shannon was right. Everything is based on that assumption, this entire list. And yet the Voigt-Kampff Altered Scale has only been administered to the first three, the two Shannon retired and then Adams. It was while Shannon was administering the test; that's when Adams lasered him."

"Which proves that she was right," Blaine said. Otherwise she would not have been lasered; Adams would have no motive.

"You get started for Seattle," Puckerman said. "Don't call them first. I'll handle it. Listen." He rose to his feet and soberly confronted Blaine. "When you run the Voigt-Kampff scale up there, if one of the humans fails to pass it – "

"That can't happen," Blaine says.

"One day, a few weeks ago, I talked with Shannon about exactly that. She had been thinking along the same lines. I had a memo from the Japanese police, circulated throughout Earth plus the colonies. A group of psychiatrists in Tokyo have approached W.P.O. with the following proposition. They want the latest and most accurate personality profile analytical tools used in determining the presence of an android – in other words the Voigt-Kampff scale – applied to a carefully selected group of schizophrenic human patients. Those, specifically, which reveal what's called a 'flattening of affect.' You've heard of that."

"That's specifically what the scale measures," said Blaine.

"Then you understand what they're worried about."

"This problem has always existed. Since we first encountered androids posing as humans. The consensus of police opinion is known to you in Lurie Kampff's article that compared the diminished emphatic faculty found in human mental patients and a superficially similar but basically – "

"The Tokyo psychiatrists," Jake broke in brusquely, "think that a small class of human beings could not pass the Voigt-Kampff scale. If you tested them in line with police work you'd assess them as humanoid robots. You'd be wrong, but by then they'd be dead." He was silent now, waiting for Blaine's response.

"But these individuals," Blaine said, "would all be – "

"In institutions," Jake agreed. "They couldn't conceivably function in the outside world. They certainly couldn't go around undetected as advanced psychotics – unless of course their breakdown had come suddenly and no one had gotten around to noticing. But this could happen."

"A million to one odds," Blaine said confidently. But he saw the point.

"What worried Shannon," Jake continued, "is the appearance of this new Nexus-6 advanced unit. The Sylvester-Hummel Association assured us, as you know, that a Nexus-6 could be delineated by standard profile tests. We took their word for it. Now we're forced, as we knew we would be, to determine it on our own. That's what you'll be doing in Seattle. You understand, don't you, that this could go wrong either way If you can't pick out all the humanoid robots, then we have no reliable analytical tool and we'll never find the ones who're already escaping. If your scale factors out a human subject – identifies him as android – " Puckerman beamed at him icily. "It would be awkward, although no one, certainly not the Sylvester-Hummel people, will make the news public. Actually, we'll be able to sit on it indefinitely. Of course, we'll have to inform the W.P.O. and they in turn will notify Tokyo and all the other capitols. Eventually it will show up on Twitter. But by then we may have developed a better scale." He picked up his phone. "You want to get started? Use a department car and fuel yourself at our pumps."

Standing, Blaine asked, "Can I take Shannon Beiste's notes with me? I want to read them along the way."

Puckerman smiled wryly and said, "Let's wait until you've tried out your scale in Seattle." His tone was interestingly merciless, and Blaine Anderson noticed it.


	4. Misdirection

When he landed the police department hovercar on the roof of the Sylvester-Hummel Association building, there were two people waiting to greet him. A tall blonde woman with the most exquisitely beautiful face Blaine had ever seen and a handsome, muscular man with blonde bangs hanging in his eyes.

"Good morning," said the blonde woman, grasping his hand in a firm shake. "I'm Quinn Fabray, marketing assistant." Her voice was low and sultry, with surprising nasal undertones. "You're Blaine Anderson, I presume?"

Her question startled Blaine out of his silent appraisal, and he nodded. "Blaine Anderson," he repeated, turning toward the man with his hand outstretched.

"Nice to meet you, Blaine. I'm Sam Evans, also in marketing." Blaine grasped his hand and glanced in turn at his long bangs, his eyes, his cheekbones and his mouth. His very large mouth. "How was the trip from San Francisco?" When Blaine didn't respond, the man kept talking and Blaine focused on his big mouth and puffy lips. Kiss-swollen, Blaine's mind supplied. He pulled his hand out of Sam's grasp, dropping his gaze to the floor and clearing his throat. " – Are you okay? Does your head hurt? Cause sometimes after I drive one of those hovercars my head hurts. But I think it's a good sign. You know, that your brain is fighting off all the dust." Blaine blinked slowly, and fixed Sam with a puzzled look.

"I'm sure Mr. Anderson is eager to get to business, Sam," Quinn admonished, and Blaine looked up at her, the corners of his mouth twitching up slightly in relief before he schooled his features into careful neutrality once more. It was a bit easier to focus without those distracting lips in his line of sight, but Quinn was so heart-achingly beautiful that it was only a slight relief.

"Thank you, Miss – "

"Fabray."

"Yes. Ms. Fabray. While I appreciate the Sylvester-Hummel Association sending you and Mr., uh, Evans here to greet me, I'm not really here to meet with the marketing team," Blaine forces himself to look first Quinn and then Sam in the eye firmly. "I hope you are going to take me to the person in charge. I have a long day ahead of me."

"Absolutely, sir." Quinn and Sam exchanged meaningful glances. "Please follow me."

Quinn and Sam walk side by side across the roof, down the stairs, and through a long, marble-lined hallway. Blaine's gaze shifted from the expanse of Quinn's muscular calves with her knee-length skirt swishing above them at each step to the silky black material of Sam's pants, alternately hanging loose and stretched taught against his firm buttocks. When they reached the door, Sam hesitated, looking at Quinn. She smiled and handed him a key card.

"Allow me," Sam said grandly, swiping the card through the sensor. The door swung open into a large atrium, filled with light streaming in from the skylights above. Blaine stepped through the doorway, squinting against the bright light.

"We'll leave you here," Quinn's voice called out from behind him followed by a loud slam. Blaine spun around, staring at the closed door and blinking stupidly.

"Mr. Anderson," said a haughty voice behind him. Blaine turned slowly, shielding his eyes. "I suppose I'm expected to say welcome."

The voice belonged to a tall, trim, fashionable man with a perfect, pale complexion, haunting blue eyes and chestnut hair swept up off his forehead in a neat swirl. Almost of their own accord, Blaine's eyes dragged a slow sweep down to the man's shiny black knee-length boots, noting the impressive length of his feet before dragging back up over the tight, striped pants, waistcoat and scarf, dimpled chin, and back to those mesmerizing eyes. It was only then that he noticed the scowl marring the man's face.

"What's wrong?" Blaine asked, stepping forward protectively.

"Oh, I don't know," the man said in his airy, musical voice. "Something about the way we got talked to on the phone. It doesn't matter." Abruptly he thrust forward his hand and Blaine shook it, noting the dry warmth. "I'm Kurt Hummel. You are Mr. Anderson, are you not?"

"Call me Blaine," he said. Quickly he added, "This is not my idea."

"Yes, Inspector Puckerman told us that. But you're officially the San Francisco Police Department, and it doesn't believe our unit is to the public benefit." Kurt eyed him suspiciously from beneath long, chestnut lashes.

Blaine said, "A humanoid robot is like any other machine. It can fluctuate between being a benefit and a hazard very rapidly. As a benefit it's not our problem."

"But as a hazard," Kurt Hummel said, "then you come in. Is it true, Mr. Anderson – Blaine – that you're a bounty hunter?"

Blaine shrugged and with reluctance, nodded.

"You have no difficulty viewing an android as inert," Kurt said. "So you can 'retire' it, as they say."

"Do you have the group selected for me?" Blaine said. "I'd like to – " He broke off. Because, all at once, he had seen their animals.

A powerful corporation, he realized, would of course be able to afford this. In the back of his mind, he had anticipated this. So it was not with surprise he felt, but more a sort of yearning. He quietly walked away from Kurt, towards the closest pen. Already he could smell them, the several scents of the creatures standing or sitting, or in the case of what appeared to be a raccoon, asleep.

Never in his life had he personally seen a raccoon. He knew the animal only from 3-D films shown on television. For some reason the dust had struck that species almost as hard as it had the birds – of which almost none survived, now. In an almost automatic response he pulled out his phone and thumbed over to the Sidney's catalog app. Raccoons, like Arabian horses, had prices listed in blue. None existed for sale on the market. The app simply listed the last known price at which a transaction involving a raccoon had taken place. It was astronomical.

"His name is Gucci," Kurt said from behind him. "We acquired him from a subsidiary corporation." He pointed past the raccoon and Blaine then perceived the armed company guards, standing with their machine guns, the rapid-fire light Skoda issue. The eyes of the guards were fastened on him. And, he thought, they clearly know that I am with the police department.

"A major manufacturer of androids," he said thoughtfully, "invests its surplus capital on living animals."

"Look at the owl," Kurt said. "Here, I'll wake it for you." He started toward a small, distant cage, in the center of which jutted up a branching dead tree.

There are no owls, Blaine started to say. Or so we've been told. Sidney's listed owls as extinct; the tiny, precise type, the _E, _again and again throughout the catalogue. As Kurt walked ahead of him he checked to see, and he was right. Sidney's never makes a mistake, he told himself. They can't make a mistake. What else can we depend on?

"It's artificial," he said, with sudden realization. His disappointment welled up keen and intense.

"No," Kurt smiled slyly and Blaine saw that he had small uneven teeth. The skin around his eyes and cheeks wrinkled as he smiled and suddenly he looked years younger. A goofy kid replacing the elegant man of moments ago.

"But Sidney's listing," he said, turning his phone outward to show Kurt the screen.

Kurt said snidely, "We don't buy from Sidney's or from any animal dealer. All our purchases are from private parties and the prices we pay aren't reported." He added, "Also, we have our own naturalists. They're now working up in Canada. There's still a good deal of forest left, comparatively speaking, anyhow. Enough for small animals and once in a while a bird." Turning to the owl and cooing, Kurt continued, "Hey there, Armani. Of course we don't think you're artificial. Don't pay attention to Mr. Anderson here."

Sensing a potential common interest with the other man, Blaine said congenially, "Gucci and Armani, huh? You must have had a hand in naming them. I noticed from the way you're dressed that you're a fan of vintage designer fashions."

"How observant of you," Kurt said, sarcastic and biting, before turning to the owl and continuing to coo at it softly.

Blaine closed his eyes and took two deep breaths, then trained his gaze back on the majestic, fluffy owl and thought about the days when owls had fallen from the sky. He remembered how in his childhood it had been discovered that species upon species had become extinct and how new reports appeared on all the social media and news sites each day – foxes one morning, badgers the next, until people had stopped re-blogging the perpetual animal obits.

As his burning need for a real animal gripped him, an actual hatred manifested within him toward his electric sheep, which he had to tend, had to care about, as if it lived. The tyranny of an object, he thought. It doesn't know I exist. Like the androids, it had no ability to appreciate the existence of another. He had never thought of this before, the similarity between an electric animal and an andy. The electric animal, he pondered, could be considered a subform of the other, a kind of vastly inferior robot. Or, conversely, the android could be regarded as a highly developed, evolved version of the ersatz animal. Both viewpoints repelled him.

"If you sold your owl," Blaine asked Kurt, "how much would you want for it, and how much of that down?"

"We would never sell our owl." Kurt scrutinized him with a mixture of contempt and pity, or so Blaine read his expression. "And even if we sold it, you couldn't possibly afford the price. What kind of animal do you have at home?"

"A sheep," he said. "A black-faced Suffolk ewe."

"Well, then you should be happy."

"I'm happy," Blaine answered. "It's just that I always wanted an owl. Even back before they all dropped dead." He corrected himself. "All but yours."

"We are planning to obtain an additional owl to mate with Armani," Kurt said. He gestured toward the owl on its perch; it had briefly opened both eyes, yellow slits which healed over as the owl settled back down to resume its slumber. Its chest rose conspicuously and fell, as if the owl, in its hypnagogic state, had sighed.

Breaking away from the sight – the bitterness blended with the awe and yearning were too much for Blaine – he said, "I'd like to test out the selection, now. Can you take me to the part of the building where I can administer the tests?"

"My aunt took the call from your boss and by now she probably has – "

"You're a family?" Blaine broke in, incredulous. "A corporation this large is a _family _affair?"

Continuing tersely, Kurt said, "Aunt Sue should have an android group and a control group set up by now." He looked down his nose at Blaine and huffed, "You're obviously in a hurry. So let's go." He loped toward the elevator with long, elegant strides and did not look back. Blaine hesitated, entranced by the hint of rippling muscles visible through the tight pants stretched over long legs. Annoyed with himself, he shook his head, and at last trailed after Kurt, who was holding his back carefully straight, and sighing dramatically with nearly every step. Blaine quickened his pace to catch up.

"What is your problem?" Blaine asked Kurt, a little out of breath as he fell into step beside him. "What exactly do you have against me?"

Kurt reflected, as if up to now he hadn't known. "Well," he said, "you, a little police department employee, are in a unique position. Know what I mean?" Kurt gave him a malice-filled sidelong glance.

"How much of your current output," Blaine asked, "consists of types equipped with the Nexus-6?"

"All," Kurt said.

"I'm sure the Voigt-Kampff scale will work with them."

"And if it doesn't, we'll have to withdraw all Nexus-6 types from the market." His blue eyes flamed up and he glowered at Blaine. "Because you police departments can't do an adequate job in the simple matter of detecting the miniscule number of Nexus-6s who balk – "

A woman, tall and imposing, with cropped blond hair, approached them, arm outstretched in a placating gesture. "Back down, Porcelain," she said to Kurt. "I can handle the doe-eyed midget from here."

Turning to Blaine with a hand extended and a stern expression, she said, "Sue Sylvester."

"Blaine Anderson," he responded uneasily, shaking her hand.

"I run this little old place along with my nephew here," she explained. "And I think I do a pretty good job. But I have to tell you, Blair – "

"Blaine."

"Right, Blaine." She sounded annoyed – and tired. "Listen, we don't manufacture anything here on Earth. We can't just phone down to production... It's not that we don't want to cooperate with you. But seriously, you think bounty-hunting is hard? Try rounding up a diverse flock of androids on short notice when all your manufacturing happens on Mars. Now that's hard!" she spat out the words viciously. But in spite of her blustery tone and false bravado, her hand shook as it roved through her hair.

Indicating his department briefcase, Blaine said, "I'm ready to start." That this obviously powerful and intimidating woman was nervous, greatly buoyed up Blaine's own confidence. They're afraid of me, he realized with a start. Kurt Hummel included. I _can _probably force them to abandon manufacture of their Nexus-6 types. What I do during the next hour will affect the structure of their operation. It could conceivably determine the future of the Sylvester-Hummel Association, here on Earth and on Mars.

For the first time since entering the building, Blaine began to feel at ease. Suddenly, he remembered what he loved about his job. Bounty-hunting was like playing an ever-changing role in a suspenseful, action-packed play. As himself, Blaine often felt nervous, unsure, and worried that he would be stripped of all his deceit, his shameful secrets laid bare for all to see. But Blaine the bounty hunter was usually masterful at playing alternately confident, debonair, flirtatious, or intimidating, as the circumstances required. The bombardment of his senses that came first in the form of a pair of blonde beauties, then the exquisite puzzle of Kurt – stunning, irresistable yet hostile, and then the acute longing for the raccoon and the owl – these things had all thrown Blaine off course. Now, taking his cue from the fear emanating from both Sue and Kurt, Blaine was able to easily slip into the role of firm authority. It was heady, this power over the most powerful company on two planets. The manufacture of androids had become so linked to the colonization effort that if one dropped into ruin, so would the other in time. Sue Sylvester and Kurt Hummel understood this perfectly and had obviously been quite conscious of it since Puckerman's call.

"I wouldn't worry if I were you," Blaine said as they led him down yet another corridor. "You must have confidence that the Voigt-Kampff scale will work. If not," he pointed out, "your organization should have researched an alternate test. It can be argued that the responsibility rests partly on you. Oh, thanks." Kurt and Sue had steered him from the corridor and into a chic, living room furnished with carpeting, lamps, couch, and modern little end tables.

Blaine seated himself at a rosewood coffee table and opening his briefcase, fished out the Voigt-Kampff apparatus. He began to assemble the rather simple polygraphic instruments. "You may send the first test subject in," he informed Sue Sylvester.

"I'd like to watch," Kurt said, also seating himself. "I've never seen an empathy test being administered. What do those things you have there measure?"

Blaine said, "This" – he held up the flat adhesive disk with its trailing wires – "measures capillary dilation in the facial area. We know this to be a primary autonomic response, the so-called 'shame' or 'blushing' reaction to a morally shocking stimulus. It can't be controlled voluntarily, as can skin conductivity, respiration, and cardiac rate." He showed Kurt the other instrument, a pencil-beam light. "This records fluctuations of tension within the eye muscles. Simultaneous with the blush phenomenon there generally can be found a small but detectable movement of – "

"And these can't be found in androids," Kurt said.

"They're not engendered by the stimuli-questions; no. Although biologically they exist. Potentially."

Kurt said, "Give me the test."

"Why?" Blaine asked, puzzled.

Cutting in, Sue said hoarsely, "We selected him as your first subject. He may be an android. We're hoping you can tell." She leaned back against a mahogany desk and settled in to watch.


	5. Revelation

Blaine trained the small beam of white light to shine directly into Kurt's left eye. He leaned in close to attach the wire-mesh disk, brushing his hand across Kurt's surprisingly soft cheek. Blaine let his fingers linger on Kurt's face, pretending to adjust the disk. Kurt licked his lips nervously and Blaine's eye's followed the movement of his tongue as it left a wet trail across his skin. Clearing his throat, Blaine forced himself to step back. "We're all set," he said.

Seated where he could catch the readings on the two gauges of the testing apparatus, Blaine said, "I'm going outline a number of social situations. You are to express your reaction to each one as quickly as possible. You will be timed, of course."

"And of course," Kurt said distantly, "my verbal responses won't count. It's solely the eye-muscle and capillary reaction that you'll use as indices. But I'll answer; I want to go through this and – " He broke off. "Go ahead, Mr. Anderson."

Blaine, selecting question three, said, "You are given a calf-skin wallet on your birthday." Both gauges immediately registered past the green and into the red; the needles swung violently and then subsided.

"I wouldn't accept it," Kurt said. "Even if it was vintage Louis Vuitton," Kurt added airily, with a nervous laugh. "Or am I not supposed to joke about this?" He peered up at Blaine, searing blue eyes framed by chestnut lashes. Blaine resolutely ignored him, training his gaze on the dials. After a pause, Kurt continues in a more sober tone. "Also, I'd report the person who gave it to me to the police."

After making a jot of notation Blaine continued, turning to the eighth question of the Voigt-Kampff profile. "You have a little boy and he shows you his butterfly collection, including his killing jar."

"I'd take him to the doctor." Kurt's voice was low but firm. Again the twin gauges registered, but this time not so far. He made a note of that, too.

"You're sitting watching TV," he continued, "and suddenly you discover a wasp crawling on your wrist."

Kurt said, "I'd hold very still and try to capture it in a box or something. Insects aren't worth that much, but I have a little cousin who might like it as a gift." He exchanges a brief look with Sue and smiles. The gauge, this time, registered almost nothing – only a feeble and momentary tremor. Blaine noted that and hunted cautiously for the next question.

"You're in high school. You're a popular kid with lots of friends. A new boy joins the class. He's small and weak, wears glasses, and wears unstylish clothes. You and your friends decide to welcome him to the school by dumping an icy drink over his head and throwing him in the dumpster – "

"I would never do that," Kurt said emphatically. "That's one of the most demoralizing things you can do to a person." Both needles registered far into the red.

"You say that as if you've had personal experience with that kind of thing," Blaine said, peering at Kurt curiously.

"Yes, well, let's just say I was never a popular kid," Kurt replied.

"I'm sorry to hear that." Blaine hunted for the next question. "Okay. You're dating a woman and she asks you to visit her apartment. While you're there she offers you a drink. As you stand holding your glass you see into the bedroom; it's attractively decorated with bullfight posters, and you wander in to look closer. She follows after you, closing the door. Putting a hand on your arm, she says – "

Kurt interrupted, "What's a bullfight poster?"

"Drawings, usually in color and very large, showing a matador with his cape, a bull trying to gore him." He was puzzled. "How old are you?" he asked; that might be a factor.

"I'm nineteen," Kurt said. "Okay; so theoretically this woman closes the door and – for some reason – touches my arm. What does she say?"

Blaine asked, "Do you know how bullfights ended?"

"I suppose somebody got hurt."

"The bull, at the end, was always killed." He waited, watching the two needles.

"Wait," Kurt said. "Am I supposed to be horrified that the bull is killed? Wouldn't it be worse if the bull killed the person?" When Blaine didn't respond, Kurt sighed. "I'm glad we don't do this bullfighting thing anymore. It sounds like rather pointless violence, don't you think?" The needles palpitated restlessly, nothing more. No real reading at all.

"Next question," said Blaine, hunting carefully through the printed sheets. "You're in the hospital, visiting a friend who broke his leg. As you are walking down the hall, peering into the rooms to find your friend, you see a man lying in a bed, a tube down his throat, his chest rising and falling in time to the clatter and hiss of an artificial respirator. You see a woman in a nurse's uniform – "

"No," said Kurt his voice low and tremulous. "No, I – I can't…"

"I haven't asked the – " Blaine stops mid-sentence when he looks up to see Kurt's stricken face, a tear running down one cheek. "What's wrong?"

"His father was in a coma for a week when he was sixteen," Blaine whipped around, startled by the sound of Sue's voice. She had been so silent, he had nearly forgotten she was in the room. "He had already lost his mother, and he and his father were really close, so that was a really hard time for him."

"I'm sorry," Kurt sniffed, wiping at his eyes. "Go on with your question."

"That's okay. We can skip that one," said Blaine, noting Kurt's look of relief. "What happened with your father? Is he okay?"

"He pulled through," Kurt smiled wistfully. "That was the worst experience my life, but that day that I squeezed his hand and he squeezed back – that day was definitely among the best."

"Do you think you could avoid any other medical questions?" Sue asked, a rough edge to her voice.

"Of course," said Blaine. "Let's see – okay. You're reading a novel in the old days before the war. The characters are visiting Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco. They become hungry and enter a seafood restaurant. One of them orders lobster, and the chef drops the lobster into the tub of boiling water while the character's watch."

"Oh god," Kurt said. "That's awful! Did they really do that? It's depraved! You mean a live lobster?" After a pause, the gauges moved into the middle of the red. Blaine furrowed his brow. The reading could indicate an appropriate response, but it didn't quite match the vehemence of Kurt's verbal reaction.

"You rent a mountain cabin," Blaine tried, "in an area still verdant. It's rustic knotty pine with a huge fireplace."

"Yes," Kurt said, nodding impatiently.

"On the walls someone has hung old map, Currier and Ives prints, and above the fireplace a deer's head has been mounted, a full stag with developed horns. The people with you admire the décor of the cabin and you all decide – "

"Not with the deer head," Kurt said. The gauges swung past the green, just barely registering into the red.

After searching carefully for the next question, Blaine continued. "Your best friend has her heart set on attending a prestigious musical theater school. She has spent years working on her audition song and you have supported her every step of the way. Each time she sings it for you, it is flawless. On the day of her audition, she gets up on stage and the spotlight is on her. She begins her song and she sounds better than she's ever sounded. But two bars in, she flubs a note. She gets permission to start over, but she makes another mistake and the admissions officer stops her and tells her she'll never get into the school. Her dream is crushed."

"How horrible," Kurt breathed in a hushed tone. The dial swung into the red, the reaction time nearly nonexistent.

Unsure how to proceed, Blaine flips the pages and starts to read a question at random. "In a magazine you come across a full-page color picture of a nude man." Blaine paused, the skin on the back of his neck flushing hot.

"Is this testing whether I'm an android," Kurt asked tartly, "or whether I'm a homosexual?" The gauges fluctuated wildly.

"W-what?" stammered Blaine.

"Homosexual. Gay. Is that what you want to know? If I'm gay?" Kurt fixes Blaine with a piercing gaze.

"Um, no." Blaine stared at Kurt, rubbing his sweaty palms against his thighs. Lost in those blue eyes, he almost blurted out the question that popped immediately into his mind. "Are y– uh – I mean, I wouldn't… I'm not finished."

Blaine looked down at the typed words, concentrated on slowing his breaths, and continued. "Your wife," Blaine put extra emphasis on the word wife, "likes the picture." This time, the gauges failed to indicate a reaction. "The naked man," Blaine added, resolutely avoiding eye contact with Kurt, "is lying spread-eagle on a large and beautiful bearskin rug." The gauges swung a bit on the word 'spread-eagle' but became inert at the end of the sentence. Possibly a homosexual response – and Blaine's feels a rush of heat at this idea. But the swell of his attraction is tempered by his next thought. Whether or not it's a homosexual response, it most definitely is an android response. Failing to detect the major element, the dead animal pelt. His – its – mind concentrating on other factors. "Your wife hangs the picture up on the bedroom wall," Blaine finished, and this time the needles moved.

"I certainly wouldn't let her," Kurt said.

"Okay," Blaine said, nodding. "Now consider this. You are watching an old movie on TV, a movie from before the war. It shows a banquet in progress; the guests are enjoying raw oysters."

"Ugh," Kurt said; the needles swung swiftly.

"The entrée," he continued, "consists of boiled dog, stuffed with rice." The needles moved less this time, less than they had for the raw oysters. "Are raw oysters more acceptable to you than a dish of boiled dog? Evidently not." He put his pencil down, shut off the beam of light, and pulled the adhesive patch from her cheek in a swift, businesslike motion.

"You're an android," he said. "That's the conclusion of the testing," Blaine informed him – or rather it – and Sue Sylvester regarded him with writhing worry; the woman's face contorted into an angry mask. "I'm right, aren't I?" Blaine said. There was no answer, from either Sue or Kurt. "Look," he said reasonably. "We have no conflict of interest; it's important to me that the Voigt-Kampff test functions, almost as important as it is to you."

Sue rolled her eyes and said, "He's not an android."

"I don't believe you," Blaine said.

"Why would she lie?" Kurt said to Blaine fiercely. "If anything, we'd lie the other way."

"I want a bone marrow analysis made of you," Blaine said, voice raised. "It can be organically determined whether you're an android or not. It's slow and painful, admittedly, but – "

"You will do not such thing!" Sue cut in angrily. "Legally, Kurt can't be forced to undergo a bone marrow test. That's been established in the courts; self-incrimination. And it would take a long time – time that none of us have."

Kurt sneered, "You can give that damn Voigt-Kampff profile test because of the specials; everyone has to be tested for constantly, and while the government was doing that you police agencies slipped that ridiculous, faulty Voigt-Kampff through. But what you said is true. That is the end of the testing." He rose to his feet, paced away from Blaine, and stood with his hands on his hips, his back to him.

"The real issue here," said Sue heavily, "is that your empathy delineation test failed in response to my nephew. I can explain why he scored as an android might. Kurt grew up aboard _Salander 3. _He was born on it. His father became the resident mechanic for the ship shortly after Kurt's mother died and Kurt lived on that ship for almost fourteen years, living off the DVD library and what his father and the nine other crew members, all adults, knew about Earth. Then, as you know, the ship turned back a sixth of the way to Proxima. Otherwise, Kurt would never have seen Earth – anyhow not until his later life. As it is, his father joined the family business and Kurt spent his last two years of high school here in Seattle. And now he's joined the business as well."

The bullying, thought Blaine. Yes, Kurt would certainly have been a target given his penchant for vintage fashion and the gaps in his knowledge about Earth and its social norms.

"You would have retired me," Kurt said over his shoulder. "In a police dragnet I would have been killed. I've known that since I got here four years ago; this isn't the first time the Voigt-Kampff test has been given to me. In fact, I rarely leave this building unescorted. I have documentation, but the risk is still enormous, because of those roadblocks you police set up, those spot checks to pick up unclassified specials."

"And androids," Sue Sylvester added. "Although naturally the public isn't told that. They're not supposed to know that androids are on Earth, in our midst."

"I don't think they are," Blaine said. "I think the police agencies across the world have gotten them all. The population is small enough now that everyone, sooner or later, runs into a random checkpoint." That, anyhow, was the idea.

"What were your instructions," Sue asked, "if you wound up designating a human as android?"

"That's a departmental matter." He began packing the testing gear into his briefcase. Sue and Kurt watched silently. "Obviously," he added, "I was told to cancel further testing, as I'm now doing. If it failed once there's no point in going on." He snapped the briefcase shut.

"We could have defrauded you," Kurt said coldly. "Nothing forced us to admit you miscategorized me. And the same for the other nine subjects we've selected." He gestured vigorously. "All we had to do was simply go along with your test results, either way."

Blaine said, "I would have insisted on a list in advance. A sealed-envelope breakdown. And compared my own test results for congruity. There would have had to be congruity." And I can see now, he realized, that I wouldn't have gotten it. Jake Puckerman was right. Thank God I didn't go out bounty hunting on the basis of this test.

"Idiot," Sue barked. "You never asked for a sealed-envelope breakdown, yet you jumped right into the testing."

"Insulting me isn't going to help this matter any," said Blaine levelly. "This problem stems entirely from your method of operation, Ms. Sylvester. Nobody forced your company to evolve the production of humanoid robots to the point where – "

"We produce what the colonists want," Sue Sylvester said. "We simply follow the time-honored principle underlying every commercial venture. If our firms hadn't made progressively more human types, other firms would have. We knew the risk we were taking when we developed the Nexus-6 brain unit. But your Voigt-Kampff test was a failure before we released that type of android. If you had failed to classify a Nexus-6 as an android, if you had checked it out as human – but that's not what happened." Her voice had become hard and bitingly penetrating. "Your police department – others as well – may have retired, very probably have retired, authentic humans with underdeveloped empathic ability, such as my innocent nephew here. Your position, Mr. Anderson, is extremely bad morally. Ours isn't."

"In other words," Blaine said resignedly, "I'm not going to be given a chance to check out a single Nexus-6. You people dropped this schizoid on me beforehand." And my test, he realized, is wiped out. I shouldn't have gone for it, he said to himself. But it's too late now. Blaine thought of the possibility of actual humans testing mistakenly as androids and being killed. He felt sick.

"We have you, Mr. Anderson," Kurt agreed in a quiet, reasonable voice. He turned toward Blaine, then, and smiled.

Blaine wondered how the Sylvester-Hummel Association had managed to snare him, and so easily. Experts, he realized. A mammoth corporation like this – it embodies too much experience. It possesses in fact a sort of group mind. And Sue and Kurt were spokesmen for that corporate entity. His mistake had been in viewing them as individuals. In getting lost, once again, in Kurt's mysterious eyes, his dazzling smile, the tragic parts of his life story.

"Your boss, Mr. Puckerman," Sue said, "will have difficulty understanding how you happened to let us void your testing apparatus before the test began." She pointed toward the ceiling, and Blaine saw the camera lens. His massive error in dealing with Sue and Kurt had been recorded. "I think the right thing for us all to do," Sue said carefully, "is sit down and – " She gestured grandly. "We can work something out, Mr. Anderson. There's no need for you to get your panties all in a wad. The Nexus-6 variety of android is a fact. We here at the Sylvester-Hummel Association recognize it and I think now you do, too."

Kurt, leaning toward Blaine temptingly, said, "How would you like to own an owl?"

"I doubt if I'll ever own an owl," Blaine said dryly. But he knew what Kurt meant. He understood the business the Sylvester-Hummel Association wanted to transact. Tension of a kind he had never felt before manifested itself inside him. It penetrated every part of his body. He felt the tension, the consciousness of what was happening, take over completely.

"But an owl," Sue Sylvester said, "is the thing you want." She exchanged a serious look with Kurt. Silence hung in the air for a moment before Sue shook her head. "Oh damn it, Kurt. I can't do this. I'll never be as good an actor as you are. I really don't think this idiot has any brains left after using all that hair gel. He has no idea – "

"Of course he does," Kurt contradicted smoothly. "He knows exactly where this is heading. Don't you, Mr. Anderson?" Kurt leaned even closer toward Blaine and this time he could smell a mild, spicy cologne. He could feel Kurt's warmth like a palpable thing between them. "You're practically there, Mr. Anderson," Kurt purred seductively. "You practically have your owl." Without missing a beat he added, in a normal voice, to Sue, "He's a bounty hunter, remember? So he lives off the bounty he makes, not his salary." Purring again, and stroking Blaine's arm slowly, Kurt asked, "Isn't that so, Mr. Anderson."

Blaine could barely breathe, his heart pounding with anxiety and confusion and something else – something more pleasant – as Kurt stroked his arm and huffed gently puffs of breath over his cheek. Unable to speak, Blaine nodded.

"How many androids escaped this time?" Kurt asked.

Forcing himself to focus, Blaine answered. "Eight. Originally. Two have already been retired, by someone else. Not me."

"You get how much for each android?" Kurt asked.

Shrugging, Blaine said, "It varies."

Kurt's fingers resumed tracing patterns up and down Blaine's arm. His voice was lilting, almost soothing. "If you have no test you can administer, then there is no way you can identify an android. And if there's no way you can identify an android there's no way you can collect your bounty. So if the Voigt-Kampff scale has to be abandoned – "

"A new scale," Blaine said, "will replace it. This has happened before." Three times, to be exact. But the new scale, the more modern analytical device had been there already. No lag had existed. This time was different.

"Eventually, of course, the Voigt-Kampff scale will become obsolete," Kurt agreed. "But not now. We're satisfied ourselves that it will delineate the Nexus-6 types and we'd like you to proceed on that basis in your own peculiar work." Kurt released his hold on Blaine's arm and stepped back, gripping his own elbow and staring at Blaine intensely as though trying to gauge his reaction.

"Stop your damn flirting and tell him he can have his owl," Sue said impatiently.

"You can have the owl," Kurt said, still eyeing him. "Armani. But we want to mate it if we can get our hands on a male. And any offspring will be ours; that has to be absolutely understood."

"Armani is a female? Unusual name."

"It's a last name. Besides, you can name the owl anything you want when it's yours."

"I'll divide the brood," said Blaine.

"No," Kurt said instantly. Behind him, Sue shook her head, backing him up. "That way you'd have claim to the sole bloodline of owls for the rest of eternity. Not going to happen. And there's another condition. You can't will your owl to anybody. At your death it reverts back to the Association."

"That sounds," Blaine said, "like an invitation for you to come in and kill me. To get your owl back immediately. I won't agree to that. It's too dangerous."

"You're a bounty hunter," Kurt deadpanned. As he continued, his voice took on a flirtatious lilt and Blaine's stomach swooped in spite of the words Kurt spoke. "You can handle a laser gun. I'm sure you're carrying one right now. If you can't protect yourself, how are you going to retire the six remaining Nexus-6 andys? They're a good deal smarter than the old model."

"But I hunt _them_," he said. "With a reversion clause on the owl, someone would be hunting me." And he did not like the idea of being stalked. He had seen the effect on androids. It brought about certain noticeable changes, even in them.

Kurt relaxed his posture and said in a bored voice, "All right; we'll yield on that. You can will the owl to your heirs. But we insist on getting the complete brood. If you can't agree to that, go on back to San Francisco and admit to your superiors that the Voigt-Kampff test, at least as administered by you, can't distinguish an andy from a human being. And then look for another job."

"Give me some time," Blaine said.

"Okay," Kurt conceded. "We'll leave you in here, where it's comfortable."

"Half an hour," Sue said. "I can't be expected to waste the rest of my day on this nonsense." She strode out the door and turned, waiting for Kurt to join her.

Kurt leaned down, his breath ghosting Blaine's ear deliciously as he whispered, "I can give you an added incentive."

"What?" Blaine asked slowly.

"You can spend the night with me. I know you want to."

"Excuse me?" He must have heard that wrong. There was no way that Kurt could mean that the way it sounded.

"Think about it," Kurt whispered. He gave Blaine's shoulders a gentle squeeze and it seemed as though Blaine's entire being was concentrated, for those few seconds, on those two points of contact, an electric thrill coursing through him from his shoulder blades down to his toes. Before he had fully experienced the feeling, Kurt was already walking away.

"The answer is yes, by the way," Kurt said from the doorway.

"To what question?" Blaine asked.

"Am I a homosexual?" He said it so casually, as if it wasn't a statement that could get a person thrown in jail or classified as a special.

Blaine wasn't sure how long he stared at Kurt, slack jawed, before his anger at this entire predicament caught up with him and he snapped his mouth shut with an audible clack.

As Kurt started to close the door after himself and his aunt, Blaine set starkly, "You managed to set me up perfectly. You have it on camera that I missed on you; you know my job depends on the use of the Voigt-Kampff scale; you offer me _that_; and you own that goddamn owl."

"Your owl, sweetheart," Kurt said. "Remember? We'll tie you home address around its leg and have it fly down to San Francisco; it'll meet you there when you get off work."

It, Blaine thought. _Kurt keeps calling the owl it. _Not her. "Just a second," he said.

Pausing at the door, Kurt grinned. "You've decided already?"

"I want," he said, opening his briefcase, "to ask you one more question from the Voigt-Kampff scale. Sit down again, please."

Kurt glanced at Sue uncertainly. She nodded and he grudgingly returned, seating himself as before. "What's this for?" he demanded, his eyebrows lifted in distaste – and wariness. Blaine perceived his skeletal tension, noted it professionally.

Presently he had the pencil of light trained on Kurt's right eye and the adhesive patch again in contact with his cheek. Kurt stared into the light rigidly, the expression of extreme distaste still manifest.

"My briefcase," Blaine said as he rummaged for the Voigt-Kampff forms. "Nice, isn't it? Department issue."

"It's no Prada," Kurt said haughtily.

"No, but it's better. It's babyhide," Blaine said. He stroked the shiny black surface of the briefcase. "One hundred percent genuine human babyhide." He saw the two dial indicators gyrate frantically. But only after a pause. The reaction had come, but too late. He knew the reaction period down to a fraction of a second. The correct reaction period. There should have been none. "Thanks, Mr. Hummel," he said, and gathered together the equipment again. He had concluded his retesting. "That's all."

"You're leaving?" Kurt asked incredulously.

"Yes," he said. "I'm satisfied."

Cautiously, Kurt said, "What about the other nine subjects."

"The scale has been adequate in your case," he answered. "I can extrapolate from that. It's clearly still effective."

"So it showed me to be human this time?" Kurt asked.

Blaine snapped the briefcase shut and looked appraisingly at Kurt for a moment before he turned to Sue and asked, "Doesn't he know?" Sometimes they didn't. False memories had been tried various times, generally in the mistaken belief that through them, reactions to testing would be altered.

Sue sighed heavily. "No. We programmed him completely. But I think toward the end he suspected." She looked at Kurt fondly. "You guessed when Mr. Anderson asked for one more try, didn't you?"

Pale, Kurt nodded silently. Arms crossed, he dug his fingernails into his arms, knuckles white with the pressure, his breathing labored.

"Don't be afraid of him," Sue told Kurt. "You're not an escaped android on Earth illegally. You're the property of the Sylvester-Hummel Association, used as a sales device for prospective emigrants." She walked over to Kurt and put her hand comfortingly on his shoulder. At the touch, Kurt flinched.

"She's right," Blaine said gently. "I'm not going to retire you, Mr. Hummel."

In a strangled voice, Kurt squeaked, "I guess I'm not actually Mr. Hummel. Am I?" He looked at Sue, eyes wet with betrayal. "All those memories – my mother's funeral, the tea parties, learning to ride a bicycle, the _Salander 3, _my dad – " the last word was a squeak followed by a choked off sob.

"All fake, I'm afraid, kiddo. The memories are from my actual nephew, who is Burt Hummel's son. But he doesn't look anything like you. He's bulky, and balding, like Burt."

Kurt's face twists into a pained knot before he buries his face in his hands, sobbing silently. Blaine tried not to be affected by the sight, but even knowing that Kurt was an android, a thing and not a person, didn't make it any easier to watch him fall apart as his entire world crumbled.

After standing there for a few moments, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot and swinging his briefcase slightly to and fro, Blaine started toward the door. At the threshold he halted briefly. "Is the owl genuine?" he asked Sue, who was rubbing a hand up and down Kurt's back.

"It's artificial," Sue said. "There are no owls."

"Hmm," Blaine muttered, and stepped numbly out into the corridor. So that's how the largest manufacturer of androids operates, Blaine thought. Devious, and in a manner he had never encountered before. A weird and convoluted new personality type. No wonder law enforcement agencies were having trouble with the Nexus-6.

The Nexus-6. He had now come up against it. Kurt, he realized. _Kurt must be a Nexus-6. _I'm seeing one of them for the first time. And they damn near did it. They came awfully close to undermining the Voigt-Kampff scale, the only method we have for detecting them. The Sylvester-Hummel Association does a good job – makes a good try, anyhow – at protecting its products. And they came awfully close to getting Blaine to reveal his own deepest secret. In fact, he thought with an embarrassed shiver, Kurt had achieved this – had somehow detected Blaine's desire and longing for the beautiful man. In fact, if the android manufacturer had specifically set out to design the man most likely to reel Blaine in with a single look, they couldn't have done a better job. And he seemed so human, so warm – smarter and shrewder and more empathetic than any android Blaine had ever faced before.

And I have to face six more of them, he reflected, before I'm finished.

He would earn the bounty money. Every cent.

Assuming he made it through alive.


	6. A Cold Reception

The TV set boomed. As Brittany S. Pierce made her way down the great empty apartment building's dust-stricken stairs to the level below, she made out the now familiar voice of Mercedes Jones, chortling happily to her vast, world-wide audience.

"Okay, folks! Time for a brief not on tomorrow's weather. First the Eastern seaboard of the U.S.A. Mongoose satellite reports that fallout will be especially pronounced toward noon and then will taper off. So all you dear folks who'll be venturing out ought to wait until afternoon, okay? We'll be back in just a minute with the rest of the weather report and then I'll have a lovely little song for you before I bring out my next very special guest – "

As Brittany knocked on the apartment door the television died immediately into nonbeing. It had not merely become silent. It had stopped existing, scared into its grave by her knock.

She could sense, beyond the closed door, the presence of life. She imagined the inhabitant of the apartment engulfed by a haunted, tongueless fear, retreating from her – pressed back to the farthest wall of the apartment in an attempt to evade her.

"Hey," she called in a loud, and hopefully reassuring, voice. "I live upstairs. I heard your TV. Let's meet, okay?" She waited, listening. No sound and no motion. So far, her words had not pried the person loose. "I brought you a cube of margarine," she said, standing close to the door and raising her voice to penetrate its thickness. "My name is Brittany S. Pierce and I work for the well-known animal vet Mr. William Schuester. You've heard of New Directions Animal Hospital, I'm sure? I'm reputable. I have a job. I drive Mr. Schuester's van."

The door swung open. Standing in the doorway, wearing a disgruntled expression, was a handsome man with messy, chestnut hair, defined cheekbones, and eyes a swirl of blue and green. Slouching, he was about the same height as Brittany, so she calculated that he was perhaps an inch or two taller when standing fully upright. "Fine. You wore me down. What do you want?" he snapped. His voice was husky with disuse, but a bit higher than she expected. It soothed some of the venom of his words.

"Just to meet. You're the first other person I've seen in the building in years." And that was no fun, she well knew.

"So you're the only one in the building?" he asked, eyeing her suspiciously. Brittany nodded and the newcomer sighed heavily. "Just my luck," he muttered. "I pick what's probably the only building in this damn town that's not actually abandoned."

"But it's good to have neighbors," Brittany insisted. "I mean, I know you might not believe me because I've been living here alone for a long time, but trust me, I know from experience how awful it can be." She peered past the man into the apartment and saw a room in disorder. Suitcases lay here and there, opened, their contents half spilled onto the littered floor. But this was natural, he had barely arrived. Brittany's eyes focused back on her new neighbor. He had straightened his posture and stood with his arms crossed. Caught by surprise, the man wore pajama bottoms and nothing more. He was thin, but muscular. Brittany allowed her eyes to rove over the contours of his biceps and down toward his tapered waist. Realizing her mouth was open, she closed it with a snap and looked at the floor.

Brittany had always had a healthy sexual appetite. Unfortunately, it had been harder and harder lately to find anyone to satisfy it. For a long time, she relied on her co-worker Puck. But she found his smugness humiliating to initiate anything with him. And he hadn't initiated anything with her in months, not since he started offering bonus services to the female clients when he picked up or delivered their artificial pets.

Still holding the margarine awkwardly, she felt a bit hurt that he had not accepted her offering. It was classy, an authentic pre-war ritual, and he hadn't even seemed aware of it. She stood in the doorway for a moment, desperately trying to think of a way to break the silence. "That Mercedes Jones is incredible, don't you think?" she asked at last. "I think I've downloaded all of her songs."

"She's a singer?" the man asks after a pause. At Brittany's surprised expression he bit his lip as if savagely angry. Evidently at himself.

"Do you not know Mercedes Jones? You had her TV show on just now." It seemed odd to her that this man had not heard of one of the planet's most famous television personalities. "Where did you come here from?" she asked curiously.

"I don't see why that matters," he said haughtily, drawing himself up to his full height and letting his arms drop to his sides. He looked into her eyes and something he saw there must have eased his concern. His body visibly relaxed and he said dismissively, "I'll be glad to receive company later on. When I'm more settled in. But right now it is out of the question."

"What? Why?" Brittany asked, puzzled. Everything about him puzzled her. Maybe, she thought, I've been living here alone for too long. I've become strange. They say chickenheads are like that. The thought made her sad. "I could help you unpack. Help you arrange your furniture."

"I don't have any furniture. These things," he said, indicating the apartment behind him with a sweeping gesture, "aren't mine. They were here when I got here."

"Oh, okay. Packing light, I guess?" she said awkwardly. "But some of these things won't do." She could tell that at a glance. The chairs, the carpet, the tables – all had rotted away. They sagged in mutual ruin, victims of the despotic force of time. And of abandonment. No one had lived in this apartment for years. The ruin had become almost complete. She couldn't imagine how he figured on living in such surroundings. "Listen," she said earnestly. "If we go all over the building looking we can probably find you things that aren't so tattered. A lamp from one apartment, a table from another."

"I'll do it," the man said. "Myself, thanks."

"You'd go in those apartments _alone_?" She could not believe it.

"Why not?" he asked confidently. But a moment later he shuddered nervously, grimacing in awareness of saying something wrong.

Brittany said, "I've tried it. Once. After that I just come home and go in my own place and I don't think about the rest. The apartments in which no one lives – hundreds of them and all full of the possessions people had, like family photographs and clothes. Those that died couldn't take anything and those who emigrated didn't want to. This building, except for my apartment, is completely kipple-ized."

"'Kipple-ized'?" He raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"Kipple is useless objects, like junk mail or gum wrappers or yesterday's newspaper. When nobody's around, kipple reproduces itself. For instance, if you go to bed leaving any kipple around your apartment, when you wake up the next morning there's twice as much of it. It always gets more and more."

"I see," the man said slowly, not knowing whether to believe her.

"There's the First Law of Kipple," she continued. "'Kipple drives out nonkipple." And in these apartments there's been nobody there to fight the kipple."

"Uh-huh," the man offered. He regarded her uncertainly. "Are you joking?" he asked at last.

"No, I'm completely serious," she said, gripping his arm and looking directly into his eyes. "Your place. This apartment you've chosen. It's too kipple-ized to live in. We can roll the kipple-factor back; we can do like I said, raid the other apartments. But – " she broke off.

"But what?"

Brittany sighed. "We can't win."

"Why not?" The man stepped forward, eager to understand. Or so it appeared to Brittany. He was at least listening.

"No one can win against kipple," she said, "except temporarily and maybe in one spot. Like in my apartment, I've created a stasis between the pressure of kipple and nonkipple, for the time being. But eventually I'll die or go away, and then the kipple will again take over. It's a universal principle operating throughout the universe. The entire universe is moving toward a final state of total, absolute kippleization."

Brittany looked up into the man's eyes. In the dim light of the hallway, they looked more green than blue. They were standing so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body. "You're really pretty." She heard the words leave her mouth before she could stop them.

She was about to apologize, but he grinned a lopsided, closed-lipped smile and said, "Thanks."

Emboldened by his response she said, "I have to go to work pretty soon, but when I come back, I can help you with your apartment." She bit her lip and looked up at him through her lashes. "Or maybe you could stay with me."

"Oh, that's very nice of you, but – " he started, backing up a step.

"There's plenty of room for your clothes and your empathy box. I should have everything else you need," she continued, peering around him and into the apartment once more. "Where is your empathy box, anyway? Don't you participate in fusion?"

"I – I don't own one," he stammered. At her shocked look he continued, "I mean, I didn't bring mine with me. I figured I could find one here."

Brittany sucked in a shocked breath. "But an empathy box is the most personal possession you have!" she exclaimed. "It's the way you touch other humans. It's the way you stop being alone. But you know that. Everyone knows that. Mercerism even lets people like me – " she broke off. But too late; she had already told him and she could see by his face, by the flicker of sudden aversion, that he knew. "I almost passed the IQ test," she said in a low, shaky voice. "I'm not very special, only moderately; not like some you see. But that's what Mercerisim doesn't care about."

"As far as I'm concerned," the man said, a look of distaste distorting his features, "you can count that as a major objection to Mercerism."

"I guess I'll go back upstairs," she said, and started away from him, clutching the cube of margarine that had become plastic and damp from the squeeze of her hand.

The man watched her go with a neutral expression on his face. And then he called out, "Wait."

Turning, Brittany asked, "Why?"

"I really do need your help. For getting furniture from other apartments, as you said. Also, I could use help with something else." He strolled toward her, his upper body trim, muscles rippling and not an excess gram of fat. "You like what you see, don't you?" he gestured toward his body with a smirk. "You want me to move in with you." He was standing right in front of her now and he reached out a hand to cup her cheek, running his thumb across her bottom lip as he leaned in close. He breathed against her lips, "I need to use your phone. I need to let my friends know where I am."

"I, um, don't have a phone," Brittany whispered, nearly forgetting the man's earlier insult as she felt desire well up in her again.

"What? How is that possible?" he asked, dropping his hand back to his side and taking a step back.

"They don't maintain any fiberoptic cable this far out from the city. And I can't really afford the cell phone charges on my salary," she explained hurriedly.

"But you said you downloaded songs," he insisted.

"Yes, at work. But when I'm at home I only have my empathy box to connect with others."

"Oh," said dejectedly, turning away and starting to walk back to his apartment. As he walked, he muttered, "I guess I'm better off on my own, anyway."

"Wait!" It was Brittany's turn to call out.

The man stopped, but didn't turn around.

"I think I could get a phone for you. Let me see what I can do. Maybe I can earn some extra money today," she offered.

"What time do you get off of work," he asked, over his shoulder.

"Six o'clock."

"I hope you can get a phone."

"I will do my best," she said. He was reaching for the apartment door when she asked, "Did you get my name? It's Brittany. And I work for – "

"You already told me who you work for," he said coldly; pushing open his door.

"And your name?" she called as he stepped into the apartment.

He paused with his hand on the door. Just before pushing it closed he said, "Carson Phillips."


	7. The Hunt Begins

After parking the department's speedy beefed-up hovercar on the roof of the San Francisco Hall of Justice, bounty hunter Blaine Anderson, briefcase in hand, descended to Jake Puckerman's office.

"You're back awfully soon," Jake said, leaning back in his chair and swiveling from side to side.

"I got what you sent me for." Blaine seated himself facing the desk. He set his briefcase down. I'm tired, he realized. It had begun to hit him, now that he had gotten back. He wondered if he would be able to recoup enough for the job ahead. "How's Shannon?" he asked. "Well enough for me to go talk to her? I want to run some things by her before I tackle the first of the andys."

Puckerman said, "You'll be trying for Azimio Adams first. The one that lasered Shannon. Best to get him right out of it, since he knows we've got him on our list."

"Before I talk to Shannon?"

Jake reached for a sheet of paper. "Adams has taken a job with the city as a trash collector, a scavenger."

"Don't only specials do that kind of work?"

"Adams is mimicking a special. An anthead – very deteriorated – or so he pretends to be. That's what suckered Shannon. Azimio Adams apparently looks and acts so much like an anthead that Shannon let her guard down. Are you sure about the Voigt-Kampff scale now? You're absolutely certain, from what happened in Seattle, that – "

"I am," Blaine said shortly. He did not amplify.

Jake said, "I'll take your word for it. But there can't be even one slip-up."

"There never could be in andy hunting. This is no different."

"The Nexus-6 is different."

"I already found my first one," Blaine said. "And Shannon found two. Three, if you count Adams. Okay, I'll retire Adams today, and then maybe tonight or tomorrow talk to Shannon." He reached for the paper in Puckerman's hand – the information sheet on Adams.

"One more thing," Jake said. "A cop from the W.P.O. satellite office in Kenya is on his way here. While you were in Seattle I got a call from him. He's aboard an Aeroflot rocket that'll touch down at the public field, here, in about an hour. His name's Abasi Omondi."

"What's he want?" Rarely did W.P.O. cops show up in San Francisco. They were usually only dispatched on international matters.

"W.P.O. is enough interested in the new Nexus-6 types that they want a man of theirs to be with you. An observer – and also, if he can, he'll assist you. It's for you to decide when and if he can be of value. But I've already given him permission to tag along."

"What about the bounty," Blaine asked anxiously.

"You won't have to split it," Jake said, smiling crookedly.

"I just wouldn't regard it as financially fair." He had absolutely no intention of sharing his winnings with a thug from W.P.O. He studied the printout on Adams. It gave a description of the man – or rather the andy – and his current address and place of business: the Bay Area Scavengers Company with offices on Geary. "According to this, the guy is huge," Blaine said with a whistle.

"You wanna wait 'til the Kenyan guy can help you?" Jake asked.

Blaine bristled. "I've handled andys three times my size before. And I've always worked alone. Of course, it's your decision. I'll do whatever you say. But I'd just as soon tackle Adams now, without waiting for Abasi - what's his name again?"

"Omondi."

"Right – Abasi Omondi. Time is of the essence here, and this Adams andy likely is already on the run. I'd like to catch him before he becomes another district's problem."

"And another bounty hunter's bonus pay," Jake grins. "But seriously, that's fine. You go ahead on your own. You can bring Omondi in on the next one – a Ms. Rachel Berry – you have the printout on her, too."

Having stuffed the sheaf of printed pages into his briefcase, Blaine left his boss' office and ascended once more to the roof and the parked hovercar. And now let's visit Mr. Adams, he said to himself, patting his laser tube.

For his first try at the android Azimio Adams, Blaine stopped off at the offices of the Bay Area Scavengers Company.

"I'm looking for an employee of yours," he said to the severe, gray-haired switchboard woman. The scavengers' building impressed him; large and modern, with lots of office space. The polished wood floors and genuine oil paintings reminded him that trash collection and disposal had become, since the war, one of Earth's most important and lucrative industries.

"Mr. Ryerson," the switchboard woman informed him. "He's the personnel manager." She pointed to an impressive, genuine oak desk at which sat a prissy individual wearing a pink shirt, the arms of a yellow knit sweater tied around his neck.

Blaine marched toward him, holding out his police badge in place of pleasantries. "Where's your employee Azimio Adams right now? At his job or at home?"

After reluctantly consulting his records and sighing dramatically, Mr. Ryerson drawled, "Adams ought to be at work. He's scheduled to flatten hovercars at our Daly City plant. However – " The personnel manager typed into his computer for a moment, then made an inside video call to someone else in the building. "He's not, then," he said, terminating the call. Turning back to Blaine he said, "Adams didn't show up for work today. No explanation. What's he done, officer?" Mr. Ryerson leaned forward, hungry for gossip.

Blaine shuddered and started to walk away without responding. Before he was out of earshot he stopped and turned back. "If he should show up," Blaine said, "don't tell him I was here asking about him. You understand?"

"Yes, I understand," Ryerson said sulkily, as if his deep schooling in police matters had been derided.

In the department's beefed-up hovercar, Blaine next flew to Adams' apartment building in the Tenderloin. We'll never get him, he told himself. They – Puckerman and Beiste – waited too long. Instead of sending me to Seattle, Puckerman should have sent me after Adams – better still last night, as soon as Shannon Beiste got shot.

What a grimy place, he observed as he walked across the roof to the elevator. Abandoned animal pens, encrusted with months of dust. And, in one cage, a no longer functioning false animal, a chicken. By elevator he descended to Adams' floor and found the hall unlit, like a subterranean cave. Using his police A-powered sealed-beam light he illuminated the hall and once again glanced over the printed information sheet. The Voigt-Kampff test had been administered to Azimio Adams. That part could be bypassed and he could go directly to the task of destroying the android.

Best to get him from out here, he decided. Setting down his weapons kit he fumbled it open and fished out a nondirectional Penfield wave transmitter. He punched the key for catalepsy, himself protected against the mood emanation by means of a counterwave broadcast through the transmitter's metal hull directed to him alone.

They're now all frozen stiff, he said to himself as he shut off the transmitter. Everyone, human and andy alike, in the vicinity. No risk to me; all I have to do is walk in and laser him. Assuming, of course, that he's in his apartment, which isn't likely.

Using an infinity key, which analyzed and opened all forms of locks known, he entered Adams' apartment, laser tube in hand.

No Adams. Only semi-ruined furniture, a place of decay. In fact, there were no personal articles. What greeted him consisted of unclaimed debris which Adams had inherited when he took the apartment and which in leaving he had abandoned to the next – if any – tenant.

I knew it, he said to himself. Well, there goes the first thousand dollars bounty; probably skipped all the way to the Antartic Circle. Out of my jurisdiction. Another bounty hunter from another department will eventually find him and claim the money. On, I suppose, to the andys who haven't been warned, as was Adams. On to Rachel Berry.

Back on the roof in the hovercar, he reported by phone to Jake Puckerman. "No luck on Adams. He probably left right after he lasered Shannon." He held the phone at arm's length to check the time. "Want me to pick up Omondi at the field? It'll save time and I'm eager to get started on Ms. Berry." He already had the printout on her laid out before him and had begun to study it.

"Good idea," Puckerman said, "except that Mr. Omondi is already here. His Aeroflot ship – as usual, he says – arrived early. Just a moment." Blaine heard only silence as he was placed on hold. "He'll fly over and meet you where you are now," Jake said, returning to the screen. "In the meantime, read up on Ms. Berry."

"A Broadway singer. Allegedly from Israel. At present attached to the Gold Coast Theater in San Francisco." He nodded in reflexive agreement, his mind on the information sheet. "Must have a good voice to make connections so fast. Okay, I'll wait here for Omondi." He gave Puckerman his location and hung up.

I'll pose as a Broadway fan, Blaine decided as he read further. I particularly would like to see her as Elphaba in Wicked. In my personal collection I have mp3s of such old-time greats as Idina Menzel and Kristin Chenoweth. That'll give us something to discuss while I set up my Voigt-Kampff equipment.

His phone buzzed and he glanced at it. Sylvester-Hummel Association, read the caller id. What do they want? he wondered. AS far as he could discern, the Sylvesters and Hummels had proven to be bad news. And undoubtedly would continue to be, whatever they intended. Sighing, he answered the call.

Kurt Hummel's face appeared on the tiny screen. "Hello, Blaine Anderson." His tone seemed placating and that caught Blaine's attention. "Are you busy right now or can I talk to you?"

"Go ahead," Blaine said.

"We of the association have been discussing your situation regarding the escaped Nexus-6 types and knowing them as we do we feel that you'll have better luck if one of us works in conjunction with you."

"By doing what?"

"Well, by one of us coming along with you. When you go out looking for them."

"Why? What would you add?"

Kurt said, "The Nexus-6 would be wary at being approached by a human. But if another Nexus-6 made the contact – "

"You specifically mean yourself."

"Yes," he nodded, his face sober.

"I've got too much help already."

"But I really think you'll need me."

"I doubt it. I'll think about it and call you back." At some distant, unspecified future time, he said to himself. Or more likely never. A part of him longed to be near Kurt again – to feel Kurt's breath tickle his ear. But he forced that thought aside. That's all I need, he thought. Kurt Hummel popping up through the dust at every step, making me lose focus.

"You don't really mean it," Kurt said. "You'll never call me. You don't realize how agile an illegal escaped Nexus-6 is, how impossible it'll be for you. We feel we owe you this because of – you know. What we did."

Blaine laughed mirthlessly. "That's complete bullshit. There is nothing you can say to convince me, Kurt, that your – or should I say your owners' – company has anything but its own interests at heart. Stop wasting my time."

Kurt's face crumpled a bit and Blaine hated himself for feeling sorry for him. "You're right," Kurt said softly, with defeat. "Sue wanted me to say we were offering this as an apology, but the company really just wants me there so I can observe and report back to them on anything the Nexus-6 types do that give them away."

"Why?" Blaine asked, intrigued.

"So they can fix those things in the next model. They're hoping that someday you won't be able to tell the difference between humans and andys with any type of test."

"That'll never happen. You can't manufacture humanity – empathy," Blaine said forcefully. "Anyway, why are you telling me this? What can you possibly stand to gain?"

A tear rolls down Kurt's cheek and he sniffs, blue eyes tinged with red. "I hate her, you know. Sue. Until today I really believed I was human. I have such vivid memories, things that are so important to me. And that's just been ripped away. I know you think I don't have any feelings, but it's not true. I don't even know what's real anymore," he sobbed.

"Hey, there. Don't cry," Blaine said feebly, compelled to offer some sort of comfort in spite of his mind's objections that Kurt is just a machine.

"And Sue thinks she can just keep using me. That, after shattering my whole world that she can just snap her fingers and demand that I keep on doing whatever she says." He pulled out a white handkerchief and wipes at his eyes and nose. Schooling his voice with steely determination, he continued. "Well, I'm not going to be her pawn anymore."

"Um, good for you…" Blaine says uncertainly, holding his phone at arm's length to check the time again. "Well, I have to – "

"Wait!" Kurt shouts. "Let me help you. It will be my perfect revenge on the Sylvester-Hummel Association. I'll help you 'retire' the escaped andys, but I won't give Sue the information she wants. I'll just lie. I'm very convincing, you know."

"That's an interesting offer," Blaine said hesitantly. "But I don't think – "

"I can be very loyal," Kurt cut in, eyeing Blaine appreciatively. "In fact, I've taken quite a liking to you Mr. Anderson." He bit his lip and blinked a few times. "Plus, we share something very unique in common."

A mix of fear and desire licked dangerously up Blaine's spine. Pushing it aside, he said cooly, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Okay, Mr. Anderson. Have it your way. But believe me, without my help one of them will get you before you get it."

"Goodbye," Blaine said forcefully and ended the call. What kind of a world is it, he asked himself, when an android calls up a bounty hunter and offers him assistance?

As he resumed reading the information about Rachel Berry, a hovercar taxi spun down to land on the roof a few yards off. From it a bulky, dark-skinned man with a round face stepped out and smiling, his hand extended, approached Blaine.

"Mr. Anderson," he asked with a Kenyan accent. "The bounty hunter for the San Francisco Police Department?" The empty taxi rose, and the man watched it go, absently. "I'm Abasi Omondi," the man said as he opened the door and squeezed in beside Blaine.

As they shook hands, Blaine noticed that the W.P.O. representative carried an unusual type of laser tube, a model which he had never seen before.

"Oh this?" Omondi said, following Blaine's line of sight. "Interesting, isn't it?" He tugged it from his belt holster. "I got this on a recent trip to Mars."

"I thought I knew every handgun made," Blaine said. "Even those manufactured on Mars."

"My buddies and I made this ourselves during our visit," Omondi said, beaming like Santa, his round face inscribed with pride. "You like it? What is different about it, functionally, is – here, take it." He passed the gun over to Blaine, who inspected it expertly, turning it over and looking for any unique features.

"How does it differ functionally," Blaine asked. He couldn't tell.

"Pull the trigger."

Aiming upward, out the window of the car, Blaine squeezed the trigger of the weapon. Nothing happened. No beam emerged. Puzzled, he turned to Omondi.

"The triggering circuit," Omondi said cheerfully, "isn't attached. It remains with me. You see?" He opened his hand, revealing a tiny unit. "And I also can direct it, within certain limits. Irrespective of where it's aimed."

"You're not Omondi, you're Adams," Blaine said, pressing the emergency button on the floor of his car with his toe.

"Why won't my laser tube fire?" Omondi – or Adams – said, stabbing at the triggering device in his hand.

"A sine wave," Blaine said. "That phases out laser emanation and spreads the beam into ordinary light."

"Then I'll have to break your pencil neck." The android dropped the device and with a snarl, grabbed with both hands for Blaine's throat.

As the android's hands sank into his throat, Blaine fired his regulation issue old-style pistol from its shoulder holster. The .38 magnum slug struck the android in the head and its brain box burst. The Nexus-6 unit which operated it burst into pieces, splattering throughout the car. Bits of it rained down on Blaine. The body of the android rocked back, collided with the car door, bounced off and struck heavily against Blaine. He found himself struggling to shove the twitching remnants of the android away.

Shakily, he at last reached for his phone and called the Hall of Justice. "Shall I make my report?" he said. "Tell Jake Puckerman that I got Adams."

"'You got Adams'," repeated the officer on duty. "He'll understand that, will he?"

"Yes," Blaine said and ended the call. He took a few long breaths, willing his body to stop shaking. Damn, that came close, he said to himself. I must have overreacted to Kurt Hummel's warning. I went the other way and it almost finished me. But I got Adams.

Blaine's adrenal gland, by degrees, ceased pumping its jolting secretions into his bloodstream; his heart slowed to normal, his breathing gradually became less frantic. But he still shook. Anyhow, I made myself a thousand dollars just now, he informed himself. So it was worth it. And I'm faster to react than Shannon Beiste. Of course, her experience evidently prepared me, I have to admit that. Shannon had not had such a warning.

Again picking up the phone he called Tina. His wife's face, sodden with the six-hour self-accusatory depression which she had prophesied, manifested itself on the screen. She was dressed all in black, with deep maroon lips and heavy black eyeliner rimming her eyelids. He had never seen her dressed this way.

"What happened to the 594 I dialed for you before I left?"

"I redialed," she said flatly. "What do you want?" Her voice sank into a dreary drone of despondency. "I'm just so tired and I have no hope left, of anything. Of our marriage, especially. I mean, you're probably going to get killed by one of those andys. It's just a matter of time…" In the background, the racket of Mercedes Jones and her bubbly guests boomed and brayed, eradicating her words. He saw her mouth moving but heard only the TV.

"Listen," he broke in. "Can you hear me? I'm on to something. A new type of android that apparently nobody can handle but me. I've retired one already, so that's a grand to start with. You know what we're going to have before I'm through?"

Tina stared at him sightlessly. "Oh," she said, nodding.

"I haven't said yet! Can you just listen to me?" Blaine's anger boiled up to the surface.

"I'm sorry. What is it, honey?" she asked listlessly.

"I have a grand already and I might have a lot more before I'm through. Start thinking about what kind of animal you want, baby. A real animal," his voice rose in excited tones in spite of his wife's stupor.

"That would be wonderful," she said remotely. "Oh, that reminds me. I think there might be something wrong with our sheep."

"What? What's wrong with it?" he asked.

"Well, I don't really know," she said slowly. "But our neighbor, Finn Hudson, called a little while ago and said I should check on it."

"Well have you?" Blaine asked slowly, feeling exasperated.

"Not yet…" Tina's eyes wandered as her focus drifted again.

"Damn it, Tina. I don't have time for this!" Blaine closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. "Just, please, go over to your mood organ and dial that 481 for renewed hope. Okay. Do it now, while I'm on the phone." Slowly, Tina walked over to her console, the image on the phone bouncing dizzyingly as she moved. "Okay, good. Can you hear me now?"

Tina blinked and nodded, holding the phone close to her face again. "Yes, I'm feeling a little better already."

"Okay. Now, I can't stay on the phone anymore. But I want you to go up on the roof and check on the sheep. If there's anything wrong, call the repair shop. It's the New Directions Animal Hospital. The number should already be in your phone."

"Okay, Blaine, I'll do it."

"Good." Blaine sighed and rubbed his chin, the rough stubble scratching his palm. "You know, Tina, it's ridiculous that I have to practically beg you to do just this one little thing for us, for our family." He looked at her again, noticing the dark clothes and makeup once more. "What is that you're wearing? Is it some kind of costume?"

Tina frowned in annoyance. "It's vintage gothic. It's important to me to express myself through my clothes. Do you seriously not know that about me?"

"I better go, before we both say some things we regret. I'll see you tonight." Tina opened her mouth to speak, an indignant expression on her face, but he ended the call and the screen zapped into blackness. Damn her, he said to himself. What good does it do, my risking my life? She doesn't care whether we own an ostrich or not. Nothing penetrates.

Broodingly, he leaned down, gathered together on the car floor his crumpled papers, including the information on Rachel Berry. No support, he informed himself. Most androids I've known have more vitality and more purpose to their lives than my own wife. She has nothing to give me. And if I'm honest with myself, he thought, I've never even been attracted to her. Not really.

That made him think of Kurt Hummel again. His advice to me as to the Nexus-6 mentality, he realized, turned out to be correct. Assuming he doesn't want any of the bounty money, maybe I could use his help.

The encounter with Adams had changed his ideas rather massively.

Turning on the hovercar's engine he whisked up into the sky, heading toward the Gold Coast Theater, where, according to Shannon Beiste's notes, he would find Rachel Berry at this time of the day.

He wondered, now, whether he would have problems with her, too. She must have an excellent voice to be a regular with that theater. A good singing voice was a very attractive quality to him. In fact, he probably never would have ended up with Tina if they hadn't sung together in their high school glee club. He had to be careful. He couldn't afford to be distracted. It was a dangerous thing that some androids seemed attractive to him, and he had even felt emotional connections with some. It was an odd sensation, knowing intellectually that they were machines but emotionally reacting anyhow.

For example, Kurt Hummel. He had felt a strong emotional connection, true pain, for the android when he had cried today. Both times, actually. And as much as he didn't want to admit it to anyone, including himself, he couldn't deny that he found the man attractive. He had longed to touch, to feel the contours of that lithe body under his hands, to explore him with his lips – but no. It was bad enough to have these thoughts about androids. After all, sex with an android was technically illegal, even though everyone knew how the 'basic companion models' truly were used. Certainly it was easier to get away with that kind of behavior on the Martian colonies. Here on Earth those laws were enforced strictly, perhaps as additional incentive to get humans to emigrate and take their 'companions' with them. But to be caught having sex with a man – that would surely bring a life sentence, or possibly even termination. After all, it wasn't fair for cities to waste precious resources on people who so willfully ignored their responsibility to contribute toward perpetuating the human race, as the latest opinions from the Supreme Court stated. It was much safer for Blaine to focus his desires on women.

He glanced at the printout on Rachel Berry once more. How old did it say she was? Oh, yes. Twenty-four. Judged by appearance, which, with andys, was the only useful standard. The picture was a bit blurry, but she looked quite attractive. Slim and petite, with long brown hair and large eyes.

It's a good thing I know something about Broadway, Blaine reflected. That's another advantage I have over Shannon Beiste. I'm more culturally oriented.

I'll try one more andy before I ask for Kurt Hummel's help, he decided. If Ms. Berry proves exceptionally hard – but he figured she wouldn't. Adams had been the rough one. The others, unaware that anyone actively hunted them, would crumble in succession, like a set of carefully placed dominos.

As he descended toward the ornate, expansive roof of the theater, he loudly sang a potpourri of Broadway tunes. Even without the Penfield mood organ at hand, his spirits brightened into optimism. And into hungry, gleeful anticipation.


	8. True or False

Carson is really out of touch, Brittany thinks as she hurried toward her battered old hovercar parked on the roof of the building. He had never heard of Mercedes Jones, and she is the most well-known human being alive. And he's so touchy about where he's from. And he didn't seem to understand the ritual of offering a gift of food to a new neighbor. He was anxious about getting in touch with his friends. Can I give him any help? she asked herself. Although, what can I really do? A special, a chickenhead, what can I offer? I can't marry and I can't emigrate and the dust will eventually kill me.

Speeding through the air, already late to work, she thought about Carson's blue eyes, his sculpted torso, his tough exterior tinged with that hint of vulnerability. At least I can get him that phone, she resolved, touching down on the roof of the New Directions Animal Hospital – that carefully misnamed little enterprise which barely existed in the tough, competitive field of false-animal repair.

She rushed down the stairs, one tangled excuse mixing with the next as she struggled to find something acceptable to explain her tardiness. But when she burst through the door, Mr. Schuester wasn't there. Instead, her coworker Puck was sitting behind their boss's desk, feet propped up on his desk and hands behind his head.

"What bee got in your bonnet?" asked Puck in exaggerated tones, grinning in a way that made that innocent phrase seem dirty and forbidden.

"Lord Tubbington needed me – had to get a, uh, a knot out of his fur. He's fussy like that," she said, looking at the ground and twirling her hair nervously.

"No need to make excuses to us, Britt," said Mike, twirling across the linoleum floor to music only he could hear. "We already covered for you with Mr. Schue. You're supposed to be on a pick up. So hurry up." He flung a set of keys her way and she caught them.

"Thanks, guys," she said gratefully, laughing as Mike put one hand on her back and the other on her hip to dance her toward the door. "What's the address?"

"It's on the northwest side. I already plugged it into the GPS on the van," Mike said, releasing Brittany from his grip and giving her a little bow. Turning to Puck, Mike added, "That girl can really move."

"Don't I know it," Puck said with a wink.

Grabbing her white coat off the hook by the door, Brittany flashed a huge grin and her outstretched middle finger in Puck's direction.

"Aw, baby, I didn't mean it that way," he pleaded in an exaggerated manner. She turned and headed up toward the stairs, a genuine smile on her face this time. Yes, Mike and Puck were excellent coworkers. They were both still classed as regulars, and they knew exactly how to make her feel like one of them.

An hour later, Brittany was on her way back to office having picked up the first malfunctioning animal for the day: an electric cat. It lay in the plastic dust-proof carrying cage in the rear of the truck and panted erratically. You'd almost think it was real, Brittany observed. She still had about twenty minutes left to travel to get back to the shop. She glanced around and seeing no police vehicles, increased her speed.

The cat, in its travail, groaned.

Wow, Brittany said to herself. It really sounds as if it's dying. Maybe its ten-year battery has shorted, and all of its circuits are systematically burning out. A major job. Mike was going to have his hands full repairing this one. And I didn't give the owner an estimate, Brittany realized gloomily. The handsome man with dark hair and penetrating eyes had simply thrust the cat at Brittany, said it had begun failing during the night, and took off for work. Anyhow, all of a sudden the momentary verbal exchange had ceased; the cat's owner had gone roaring up into the sky in her sporty new hovercar. And the woman constituted a new customer. Damn it. Mr. Schuester was going to be pissed off. And on the first day Brittany ever really needed a favor.

To the cat, she said, "Can you hang on until we reach the shop?" The cat continued to wheeze. "Oh, all right already. I'll recharge you now." Brittany dropped the truck toward the nearest available roof and with the motor still running, crawled into the back of the truck. She opened the plastic dust-proof carrying cage, which, in conjunction with her own white coat and the name on the truck, created a total impression of a true animal vet picking up a true animal.

The electric mechanism, within its compellingly authentic-style gray pelt, gurgled and blew bubbles, its vid-lenses glassy, its metal jaws locked together. This had always amazed her, these "disease" circuits built into false animals. The construct which she now held on her lap had been put together in such a fashion that hen a primary component misfired, the whole thing appeared – not broken – but organically ill. It would have fooled me, Brittany said to herself as she groped within the ersatz stomach fur for the concealed control panel (quite small on this variety of false animal) plus the quick-charge battery terminals. She could find neither. Nor could she search very long; the mechanism had almost failed. If it does consist of a short, she reflected, which is busy burning out circuits, then maybe I should try to detach one of the battery cables. The mechanism will shut down, but no more harm will be done. And then, in the shop, Mike or Puck could charge it back up.

"Come on, little guy. Stay with me," she muttered as she ran her fingers deftly along the pseudo bony spine. The cables should be about here. Damn expert workmanship; so absolutely perfect an imitation. Cables not apparent even under close scrutiny. Must be a Wheelright & Carpenter product – they cost more, but look what good work they do.

She gave up; the false animal had ceased functioning, so evidently the short – if that is what ailed the thing – had finished off the power supply and basic drive-train. That'll run into money, she thought pessimistically. Well, the guy evidently hadn't been getting the three-times-yearly preventive cleaning and lubricating, which made all the difference. Maybe this would teach the owner – the hard way.

Brittany wiped a tear from her cheek as she gazed at the crumpled body of the false cat reverently for a moment. Sniffing and shaking her head, she crawled back into the driver's set and resumed her flight back to the repair shop.

Funny, she thought, even though I know rationally it's faked, the sound of a false animal burning out its drivetrain and power supply ties my stomach in knots. This, she thought painfully, is the part of the job that I hate. If I hadn't failed the IQ test, I wouldn't be reduced to this thankless task with its emotional byproducts. On the other hand, the synthetic sufferings of false animals didn't bother Noah Puckerman or Mike Chang or William Schuester. So again, maybe it's just me. Maybe when you deteriorate back down the ladder of evolution as I have, when you sink into the underworld of being a special – well, best to abandon that line of inquiry. Nothing depressed her more than the moments in which she contrasted her current mental powers with what she had formerly possessed. Every day she declined in sagacity and vigor. She and the thousands of other specials throughout Earth, all of them moving toward the ash heap. Turning into living kipple.

When she parked the truck on the roof of the New Directions Animal Hospital, she quickly carried the plastic cage containing the inert false cat downstairs.

Mike was hunched over a workbench in the front room, tinkering with what looked like a false hamster. Puck was sweeping the floor lazily, keeping up a steady stream of chatter while Mike humored him with the occasional, noncommittal "mm-hmmm."

Ignoring them, she heads straight to William Schuester's office. As she entered, Mr. Schuester glanced up from a parts-inventory page. "Hello, Brittany. What do you have there?" he asked.

"A cat with a short in its power supply." Brittany set the cage down on the document-littered desk of her boss.

"Why are you showing it to me?" Schuester asked. "Just take it to Mike." However, reflexively, he opened the cage and tugged the false animal out. Before he took over management of the shop, he had been a repairman. A very good one. He began a thorough examination of the cat as Brittany stood in front of his desk, shifting her weight awkwardly from one foot to the other.

"I'm serious," Puck whines in the background. "There are actual androids, the kind you get when you emigrate to Mars, walking around here like they're people."

"Um, Mr. Schuester?"

"Yes, Brittany?" Mr. Schuester said distractedly, turning the cat over and running his hands through its fur.

Mike's voice drifts through the door, "That's ridiculous. There aren't any androids on Earth. They don't even manufacture them here."

Brittany shifted her weight again, her gaze bouncing around the room. "I was wondering if maybe I could – um, if it's not too much trouble…"

Peering up at her, Mr. Schuester asked, "What?"

"You should listen to me, man. I've got insider knowledge with the SFPD," Puck says with self-importance.

Brittany blinks a few times in an effort to regain her focus. "Well, I've been working here for a while now. And you and Mike and Puck are always telling me that I do a good job – "

"That's right." Mr. Schuester tilted his head, brow furrowed. "What are you getting at?"

Puck continued. "He's pretty high-up, my brother – "

"Half-brother," Mike cut in, bored and thoroughly unimpressed. "And when was the last time you talked to him anyway?"

Brittany dug her fingernails into her palms and forced herself to continue. "I was wondering if I could maybe have a raise. I've had some unexpected expenses come up just recently, you see – "

"Damn it!" Mr. Schuester yelled, dropping the cat onto the table. Brittany stared silently, body tense as her boss stood up, spun around, tugged a hand savagely through his tight curls, and let out a string of abuse lasting what seemed to be a full minute. "This cat," Mr. Schuester said finally, "isn't false. I knew sometime this would happen. And it's dead." He turned again, staring down at the corpse of the cat. And cursed again.

Mike appeared at the office door. "What's the matter?" Seeing the cat he entered the office and picked up the animal.

"The chickenhead," Schuester said, pointing an accusatory finger at Brittany, "brought it in." Brittany sucked in a shocked breath and willed herself not to cry. Never before had he used that term in front of her. It was one of the reasons she had never looked for another job, in spite of the emotional challenge of dealing with sick animals – or at least very good imitations of sick animals – every day.

"Damn, really?" Puck said, poking his head through the door. "Sorry, I couldn't help but hear that. Let me see it," he said, taking the cat from Mike and turning it over in his hands. "If it was still alive, we could take it to a real animal vet. I wonder what it's worth. Anybody got their phone handy? I can look it up on the Sidney's app."

"D-doesn't y-y-your insurance c-c-cover this?" Brittany asked. Her legs wavered under her and she felt the room begin to turn dark maroon cast over with specks of green.

"Yes," Mr. Schuester said finally, almost snarling. "But it's the waste that gets me. The loss of one more living creature. Couldn't you tell, Brittany? Didn't you _notice _the difference?"

"I thought," Brittany managed to say, "it was a really good job. So good it fooled me; I mean, it seemed alive and a job that good – "

"I don't think Brittany can tell the difference," Mike said mildly. "To her they're all alive, false animals included. You remember how she insisted that we let her have that giant false cat when Cooper Products made that horrible mistake with the measurements? She probably tried to save this one, too." To Brittany he said, "What did you do, try to recharge its battery? Or locate a short in it?"

"Y-yes," Brittany admitted, blinking back tears.

"It probably was so far gone it wouldn't have made it anyhow," Mike said. "Let Brittany off the hook, Mr. Schue. She's got a point. The fakes are beginning to be darn near real, what with those disease circuits they're building into the new ones. And living animals do die; that's one of the risks in owning them. We're just not used to it because all we see are fakes."

"The goddamn waste," Mr. Schuester said, rubbing a hand over his face.

"According to Mercerism," Brittany pointed out, "all life returns. The cycle is complete for animals, too. I mean, we all ascend the hill – "

"Tell that to the guy that owned this cat," Mr. Schuester said flatly.

Not sure if her boss was serious Brittany said, "You mean I have to? But you always handle calls." She had a phobia about the phone and found making a call, especially to a stranger, virtually impossible. Mr. Schuester, of course, knew this.

"Don't make her," Mike said. "I'll do it."

"Yeah, or I will," agreed Puck. He reached for the phone. "What's his number?"

"I've got it here somewhere." Brittany fumbled in the pockets of her white coat.

"I want Brittany to do it," Mr. Schuester said firmly.

"I c-c-can't use the phone. Especially with the video," Brittany protested. "I'm nervous and I feel really ugly and dirty and stooped and gray. I feel sick from the radiation. I think I'm going to die."

Mike smiled and said to Mr. Schuester, "I guess if I felt that way I wouldn't use the phone either. Come on, Britt. If you don't give me the owner's number I can't make the call and you'll have to." He held out his hand amiably.

"Do you know that she had the gall to ask for a raise just now?" Mr. Schuester said, eyes straight ahead and fixed on nothing. "The chickenhead makes the call, or she's fired."

"Aw, come on," Puck protested.

Brittany said, "I d-don't like to be c-c-called a chickenhead. I mean, the d-d-dust has d-d-done a lot to you, too, physically. Although maybe not to your b-b-brain, as in my case." I'm fired, she realized. I can't make the call. Sweat beaded and trickled under her arms and down the backs of her legs. She would lose her job, the one place where at least some people stood up for her and treated her like an equal. She would lose her chance to help Carson and he would probably stop talking to her. She would lose her ability to cover her expenses and would have to apply to an institution for specials.

And then all at once she remembered that the owner of the cat had zipped off to work. There would be no one home. "I guess I can call her," she said, as she fished out the tag with the information on it.

"See?" Mr. Schuester said to Mike. "She can do it if she has to."

Seated in front of the screen, Brittany dialed.

"Yeah," Puck said, "but she shouldn't have to. And she's right. The dust has affected you. You're damn near blind and in a couple of years you won't be able to hear."

Schuester said, "It's got to you too, Puck. Your skin is the color of dog manure." Puck cheerfully held up his middle finger. Mr. Schuester opened his mouth to respond but just then the call connected and he stayed silent.

On the screen, a face appeared. A small woman with a sharp chin, red hair, and enormous eyes. "Yes?" he said.

"M-m-Mrs. Howell?" Brittany said, terror spewing through her. He had not thought of the fact that the owner might have a wife, who might be at home.

"Pillsbury," the woman said.

"What?" Brittany asked blankly.

"My name Emma Pillsbury. My husband is Dr. Carl Howell," she said precisely. Brittany found herself wondering what part of the country she could be from with an accent that sounds like speaking with cotton balls in one's cheeks. "May I help you?"

"Um, I want to t-talk to you about your c-c-c – " Brittany broke off and took a deep breath, twirling her hair in her fingers. "Your cat."

"Oh yes, you picked up Horace," Ms. Pillsbury said. "Did it turn out to be pneumonitis? That's what my husband thought."

Brittany said, "Your cat died."

"Oh no, God in heaven."

"We'll replace it," Brittany said hurriedly. "We have insurance." She glanced toward Mr. Schuester; he seemed to concur. "The owner of our firm, Mr. William Schuester – " She floundered. "Will personally – "

"No," Schuester mouthed in an exaggerated fashion. "We'll give them a check. Sidney's list price."

" – will personally pick the replacement cat out for you," Brittany found herself saying. Having started a conversation which she could not endure she discovered herself unable to get back out. What she was saying possessed an intrinsic logic which she had no means of halting. It had to grind to its own conclusion. Mr. Schuester, Puck and Mike all stared at her as she rattled on. "Give us the specifications of the cat you desire. Color, sex, subtype, such as Manx, Persian, Abyssinian – "

"Horace is dead," Ms. Pillsbury said.

"He had pneumotitis," Brittany said. "He died on the trip to the hospital. Our senior staff physician, Dr. William Schuester, expressed the belief that nothing at this point could have saved him. But isn't it fortunate, Dr. Howell, that we're going to replace him? Am I correct?"

Ms. Pillsbury, tears appearing in her eyes, said, "There is only one cat like Horace. He used to – when he was just a kitten – stand and stare up at us as if asking a question. We never understood what the question was. Maybe now he knows the answer." Fresh tears appeared. "I guess we all will eventually."

"I-I understand, Ms. Pillsbury. I too, have a cat, Lord Tubbington, and there is no one else like him." She resolutely ignored Puck's muffled snickers. Thinking of her own cat, inspiration struck her. "What about an exact electric duplicate of your cat? We can have a superb handcrafted job by Wheelright & Carpenter in which every detail of the old animal is faithfully repeated in permanent – "

"Oh that's dreadful!" Ms. Pillsbury protested. "What are you saying? Don't tell my husband that; don't suggest that to Carl or he'll go mad. Oh God, I don't know what to do." Her eyes opened impossibly wide and she sucked panicked, labored breaths in and out. "My marriage is on the rocks as it is. This can't be happening. Carl loved Horace more than any cat he ever had, and he's had a cat since he was a child."

Pushing Brittany gently out of the way, Mr. Schuester sat down in front of the screen. "We can give you a check in the amount of Sidney's list, or as Ms. Pierce suggested we can pick out a new cat for you. We're very sorry that your cat died, but as Ms. Pierce pointed out, the cat had pneumonitis, which is almost always fatal." His tone rolled out professionally. Out of the four of them at the New Direction's Animal Hospital, Mr. Schuester performed the best in the matter of business calls.

"I can't tell my husband," Ms. Pillsbury said.

"All right, ma'am," Mr. Schuester said, holding back a grimace. "We'll call him. Would you please give me his number at his place of employment?" He groped for a pad and pen. Mike handed them to him.

"Listen," said Ms. Pillsbury, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "Maybe the young woman is right. Maybe I ought to commission an electric replacement of Horace but without Carl ever knowing. Could it be so faithful a reproduction that my husband wouldn't be able to tell?"

Dubiously, Mr. Schuester said, "If that's what you want. But it's been our experience that the owner of the animal is never fooled. It's only casual observers such as neighbors. You see, once you get real close to a false animal – "

"Carl never got physically close to Horace, even though he loved him. I mean, he took care of his needs, like changing the litter box. That was something I just couldn't do. I don't do well with the – messy things. But I'm the one that pets him – wearing gloves, of course. I like to stay clean." Mr. Schuester made eye contact with Mike who was standing behind and to the side of the screen. Mike raised an eyebrow and shrugged as if to say, to each his own.

"Yes, I think I would like to try a false animal," Ms. Pillsbury said, clasping her hands in front of her determinedly. "If it didn't work, then you could find us a real cat to replace Horace. I just don't want my husband to know. I don't think he could live through it. That's why he never got close to Horace – he was afraid to. And when Horace got sick, Carl was panic-stricken and just wouldn't face it. That's why we waited so long to call you. Too long…as I knew before you called. I knew." She nodded, her tears under control now. "How long will it take?"

"We'll have it ready in about a week," Mr. Schuester said, looking to Mike for a nod of approval. I'll come by personally to deliver it – during the day, while your husband is at work. We can set up a time over email." He chatted for a few moments, winding up the call. As soon as he hung up, he looked at his three employees soberly. "Mike, I want you to take this cat over to Wheelright & Carpenter and make sure they get the measurements right. I don't want a repeat of what happened with that monstrosity that Brittany ended up taking home."

"I don't think we have to worry about that, Mr. Schue. Wheelright is the best. But I'll take it over there, no problem." After a pause, Mike added, "He'll know, her husband. In about five seconds."

"Damn shame," Mr. Schuester said, shaking his head ruefully. "I feel so badly for that poor woman, though. I really wish we could help her."

"I hear they've got some souped up models, might just do the trick," Puck said. "Realer than real, I think the slogan is. But our insurance probably won't cover the extra dough."

"I'll cover it," Mr. Schuester said immediately. "I'd like to see Ms. Pillsbury smile when I bring over the replacement. Owners who get to love their animals," he added somberly. "They go to pieces. I'm glad we're not usually involved with real animals. You realize that actual animal vets have to make calls like that all the time?" He contemplated Brittany, who was still shaking a bit, eyes pointed at the floor. "You know, you're not so stupid after all, Brittany. You handled that call really well. I probably didn't even have to come in and take over. I just felt badly for that woman and wanted to talk with her myself."

"She did great," Mike agreed. He picked up the dead cat. "I'll take this over right now."

"Okay, I'll give them a call and let them know you're on the way," Mr. Schuester said. "Oh, and Mike?" Mike paused at the doorway. "On your way back, swing by the north side and take a look at an electric sheep for me. A lady called just before this whole shit storm happened. Sounds minor. I think you can bring some tools with you and do the repair right in the truck. The address is on my desk."

"Will do," said Mike, carrying the cat into Mr. Schuester's office to collect the paper with the address. "I'll see you all later."

Mike hurried out the door and Puck went back to sweeping the floor. Mr. Schuester headed back to his desk to make the call to Wheelright. Brittany trailed behind him.

"I'm really sorry, Mr. Schue – "

"No, Brittany," Mr. Schuester said with a soft smile, "don't apologize. I'm the one who should apologize to you. What happened wasn't your fault and I shouldn't have made you feel bad about something you can't help."

"Thanks," Brittany said quietly. "I appreciate your saying that."

"No really, I mean it. And Mike is right, you did great with that call. And I really would like to give you that raise, but – "

"It's okay, I don't really need a raise," she said in a rush. "But maybe just a little bonus? That would really help me out right now."

Mr. Schuester frowned. "I'm sorry, Brittany. Everything extra that I've got is going to have to go toward making sure that replica of Horace the cat is perfect. Maybe in a few months."

"I understand," she said resolutely. However, she couldn't help muttering, "I'm not going to need it in a few months, though, I need the money now," under her breath as she headed back toward her work area.

Puck was close enough to whisper in an instant. "You need extra cash? You know I can hook you up. Those lonely, unemployed, stay-at-home wives are usually so happy for a little attention that they give me mad tips. There aren't usually as many guys at home during the day, but I know a few of our regular customers who might be willing to pony up some cash for a little one-on-one time with you."

Puck had tried to include Brittany in his little side business before, but finding it distasteful, had always said no. This time, however, she nodded.

"You must really need the money," he said curiously. "What's it for?"

"A cell phone," she said.

"But don't you live out in the boonies where you can't get any reception?"

Before she could answer, Mr. Schuester yelled from his desk, "A call just came in. I need a pick up on a dog, for a tune-up."

"Is the customer a man or a woman?" Puck asked.

"Why?"

"Humor me," Puck said.

"Man. He's a regular customer. A Mr. Artie Abrams."

"Oh, yeah. I know him. We're on it, Mr. Schue," Puck calls loudly with a wave. Mr. Schuester looks a bit skeptical, but after a moment he waves back and closes the glass door to his office. Puck and Brittany watch him shuffle back to his desk and settle down behind it. Within a moment, he was absorbed in reading something on his computer again.

"You're up," Puck says, waggling an eyebrow at Brittany.

"I – um – I don't know. I mean, after what just happened with the cat…" Brittany grinds the ball of her foot back and forth against the linoleum.

"No worries," Puck said. "I've picked up this dog before, and it's definitely fake. And besides, you did great with that call. I think you handled it as well as any of us could have."

"Really?" Brittany said, biting on her lip to keep her beaming smile in check.

"Really." Puck clapped a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Seriously, Britt, this is perfect. I know this guy – he's totally my bro. And I know he can hook you up. He does something with electronic communications for his job. Works from home – isn't that sweet? It's easier for him, 'cause he's in a wheelchair. That doesn't bother you does it?" Puck pauses until Brittany shakes her head and gives him a tentative smile. "Anyway, if anyone can find out a phone powerful enough to work out in the boonies where you live, it's my bro, Artie." Puck releases his grip on Brittany's shoulder and pulls out his phone. "I'll send him a text to let him know you're coming." Tapping rapidly on the keys, he casually adds, "And you probably won't even need to do much. Just a little making out – or maybe a hand job. A guy in a wheelchair won't be too particular." Puck finishes his text and grabs a piece of paper and pen to scribble out the address.

"We'll see," Brittany says, smiling more broadly now. "It might not be a bad idea for me to take it a little further than that. It might keep me from doing something really foolish when I get home."

Puck stops typing and gives her an appraising look. "Well, well, well. What are you hiding? Do you have a crush on someone?"

"May – be," she sing-songed, holding out her hand for the address.

"It's not Mike is it?" Puck asks with a frown, pulling back the slip of paper and holding it close to his chest.

"No, silly," she laughed. Lowering her voice conspiratorially, she said, "It's a new guy who just moved in to my building."

"Oh, is that why you suddenly are so desperate to have a phone?" Puck asked.

"He has some friends he wanted to contact. I thought I'd help him out," she said, leaning forward and snatching the paper from him and striding toward the door.

"Well, take my advice. Don't let him use the phone until after he puts out," Puck teased. Brittany snatched a rubber glove off the counter and launched it slingshot-style across the room, hitting Puck square in the crotch.

"Get back to work," Mr. Schuester yelled, glaring at them from behind his desk.

Giggling, Brittany rushed out the door, taking the stairs two at a time.


	9. Evasion

In the enormous whale belly of steel and stone carved out to form the long-enduring Gold Coast theater, Blaine found a noisy rehearsal taking place. As he entered, he recognized the opening bars to Don't Rain on My Parade.

What a pleasure; he loved Funny Girl. He seated himself in a box off to the side (no one appeared to notice him) and made himself comfortable.

"Don't tell me not to fly, I simply got to; if someone takes a spill, it's me and not you – " Blaine was impressed. The woman singing this song, a petite brunette, had an incredible voice. Pulling out the printout on Rachel Berry he studied the picture, then leaned back, satisfied. I've now seen my third Nexus-6 android, he realized. This is Rachel Berry.

On the stage, she continued to sing, and he found himself increasingly surprised at the quality of her voice. It rated with that of the best, even that of notables in his collection of historic mp3s. The Sylvester-Hummel Association built her well, he had to admit. It was a damned shame he was going to have to retire her. The world could use more of this kind of beauty. Blaine closed his eyes and allowed himself to float along on the rich timbre of her voice. Perhaps, he thought, the better she functions, the more I am needed. If the androids had remained substandard, like the ancient q-40s made by the Dalton Associates, there would be no problem and no need of my skill.

At the end of the act the rehearsal ended temporarily. It would resume, the director said, in an hour and a half. Getting to his feet, Blaine made his way backstage to the dressing rooms; he followed the tail end of the cast, taking his time and thinking, It's better this way, getting it immediately over with. I'll spend as short a time talking to her and testing her as possible. As soon as I'm sure – but technically he could not be sure until after the test. Maybe Shannon guessed wrong on her, he conjectured. I hope so. But he doubted it. Already, instinctively, his professional sense had responded. And he had yet to err…throughout years with the department.

Stopping a super he asked for Ms. Berry's dressing room. The super, carrying a heavy stage light balanced on one shoulder, pointed. Blaine arrived at the indicated door, saw an ink-written note tacked to it reading Miss Berry PRIVATE. There was a gold star – a sticker – next to the words. Blaine knocked.

"Come in."

He entered. The girl sat at her dressing table, a much-handled clothbound script open on her knees, marking here and there with a ball-point pen. She still wore her costume and makeup. "Yes?" she said, looking up. The stage makeup enhanced her eyes; enormous and brown they fixed on him and did not waver. "I am busy, as you can see. The show opens in less than a week and I still have a lot to do to get everything perfect." Her English contained no remnant of an accent.

Blaine said, "You compare favorably to Streisand."

"Thank you so much," she said, beaming. After a moment of staring into his eyes, she glanced down and saw his briefcase. Her smile faltered. "Who are you?"

"I'm from the San Francisco Police Department," he said.

"Oh?" The huge and intense eyes remained fixed on his own. "What are you here about?" Her tone, oddly, seemed gracious.

Seating himself in a nearby chair he unzipped his briefcase. "I have been sent here to administer a standard personality profile test to you. It won't take more than a few minutes."

"Is it necessary?" She gestured toward the big cloth-bound script. "My debut is coming so soon and I have so much to do." She had begun to look apprehensive.

"It's necessary." He got out the Voigt-Kamff instruments, began setting them up.

"An IQ test?"

"No. Empathy."

"I'll have to put on my glasses." She reached to open a drawer of her dressing table.

"If you can mark the script without your glasses you can take this test without them. I'll show you some pictures and ask you some questions. Meanwhile – " He got up and walked to her, and bending, pressed the adhesive pad of sensitive grids against her deeply tinted cheek. "And this light," he said, adjusting the angle of the pencil beam, "and that's it."

"Do you think I'm an android? Is that it?" She said with excitement. "This is fantastic. It can help me prepare for a future role. There aren't any current Broadway productions about androids, but I've heard some backroom talks that April Rhodes may be planning something. Her last play won a Tony, you know."

"I hope it's helpful to you," Blaine said dryly.

"Oh," she said with sudden realization. "You actually think I'm an android, don't you?" Her elongated lashes shuddered involuntarily. He saw her trying to appear calm. "I'm not one. I've never even been to Mars. I've never even _seen _an android, except on TV." Thinking for a moment, she asked, "Do you have information that there's an android in the cast? I'd be glad to help you. If I were an android would I be glad to help you?"

"An android," he said, "doesn't care what happens to another android. That's one of the indications we look for."

"Then," Ms. Berry said, "you must be an android."

That stopped him. He stared at her.

"Because," she continued, "your job is to kill them, isn't it? You're what they call – "

"A bounty hunter," Blaine said. "But I'm not an android."

"This test you want to give me." Her voice grew stronger, more self-assured. "Have you taken it?"

"Yes," he nodded. "When I first started with the department."

"Maybe that's a false memory. Don't androids sometimes go around with false memories?"

Blaine said, "My superiors know about the test. It's mandatory."

"Maybe there was once a human who looked like you, and somewhere along the line you killed him and took his place. And your superiors don't know." She smiled. As if inviting him to agree.

"Let's get on with the test," he said, getting out the sheets of questions.

"I'll take the test," Rachel Berry said, "if you'll take it first."

Again he stared at her, stopped in his tracks.

"Wouldn't that be more fair?" she asked. "Then I could be sure of you. And besides, it would help me even more with my career goals. I would be prepared to play either an android or a bounty hunter when that new play comes out." She smiled again. Hopefully.

"You wouldn't be able to administer the Voigt-Kampff test. It takes considerable experience. Now please listen carefully. These questions will deal with social situations you might find yourself in; what I want from you is a statement of response, what you'd do. And I want the response as quickly as you can give it. One of the factors I'll record is the time lag, if any." He selected his initial question. "You're sitting watching TV and suddenly you discover a wasp crawling on your wrist." He checked with his watch, counting the seconds. And checked, too, the twin dials.

"What's a wasp?" Rachel asked.

"A stinging bug that flies."

"Oh, how strange." Her immense eyes widened with childlike acceptance, as if he had revealed the cardinal mystery of creation. "Do they still exist? I've never seen one."

"They died out because of the dust. Don't you really know what a wasp is? You must have been alive when there were wasps; that's only been – "

"Tell me the Hebrew word."

He tried to think of the Hebrew word but couldn't. He pulled up the translator app on his phone and quickly typed in the word and requested language. When it didn't come back with the answer immediately, he sighed in frustration. "Your English is perfect," he said angrily.

"My accent," she corrected, "is perfect. It has to be, for the stage. But my vocabulary isn't very large." She glanced at him shyly.

His phone pinged and he glanced down at it. "I can't read Hebrew, so I don't know how to say that." He showed her the screen.

"Ah, yes," she said, pronouncing the word and then saying a few more sentences in rapid Hebrew. She laughed. "What was your question?"

"Let's try another." Impossible now to get a meaningful response. "you are watching an old movie on TV, a movie from before the war. It shows a banquet in progress; the entrée" – he skipped over the first part of the question – "consists of boiled dog, stuffed with rice."

"Nobody would kill and eat a dog," Rachel said. "They're worth a fortune. But I guess it would be an imitation dog. Ersatz, right? But those are made of wires and motors. They can't be eaten."

"Before the war," he grated.

"I wasn't alive before the war."

"But you've seen old movies on TV."

"Was the movie made in the Philippines?"

"Why?"

"Because," Rachel said haughtily, "they use to eat boiled dog stuffed with rice in the Philippines. I remember reading that."

"But your response," he said. "I want your social, emotional, moral reaction."

"To the movie?" She pondered. "I'd turn it off and watch a musical instead."

"Why would you turn it off?"

"Well," she said hotly, "I can't imagine that it would have won any Oscars, so it wouldn't do anything for my career to watch it. And besides, who the hell wants to watch an old movie set in the Philippines?" She glared at him indignantly. The needles swung in all directions.

After a pause he said carefully, "You rent a mountain cabin."

"Yes," she nodded. I might actually do that. The mountain air is supposed to be really good for rejuvenating the voice."

"In an area still verdant."

"Pardon?" She cupped her ear. "I don't ever hear that term."

"Still trees and bushes growing. The cabin is rustic knotty pine with a huge fireplace. On the walls someone has hung old maps, Currier and Ives prints, and above the fireplace a deer's head has been mounted, a full stag with developed horns. The people with you admire the décor of the cabin and – "

"I don't understand 'Currier' or 'Ives' or 'décor,' Rachel said. She seemed to be struggling, however, to make out the terms. "Wait." She held up her hand earnestly. "With rice, like in the dog. Currier is what makes the rice currier rice. Or is it curry?"

He could not fathom, for the life of him, if Rachel Berry's semantic fog was calculated or innocent. Either way, it was rendering his test meaningless. He decided to try another question. What else could he do? "You're dating a man," he said, "and he asks you to visit his apartment. While you're there – "

"Oh, no," Rachel broke in. "I wouldn't be there. That's easy to answer."

"That's not the question!"

"Did you get the wrong question? But I understood that. Why is a question I understand the wrong one? Aren't I supposed to understand?" Nervously fluttering she rubbed her cheek – and detached the adhesive disk. It dropped to the floor, skidded, and rolled under her dressing table. She muttered, bending to retrieve it. There was a ripping sound, that of cloth tearing. "Oh God, I can't handle another fitting," she moaned.

"I'll get it," he said, and lifted her aside. He knelt down, groping under the dressing table until his fingers located the disk.

When he stood up he found himself looking into a laser tube.

"Your questions," Rachel said in a crisp, formal voice, "began to be about sex. I thought they would finally. You're not from the police department." She trained the laser on him with one hand and pointed wildly at him with the other. "You're a sexual deviant!"

"You can look at my identification." He reached toward his coat pocket. His hand, he saw, had again begun to shake, as it had with Adams.

"If you reach in there," Rachel said, "I'll kill you."

"You will anyhow." He wondered how it would have worked out if he had waited until Kurt Hummel could join him. Well, no use dwelling on that.

"Let me see some more of your questions." She held out her hand and, reluctantly, he passed her the sheets.

"'In a magazine you come across a full-page color picture of a nude girl.' Well, that's one. 'You became pregnant by a man who has promised to marry you. The man goes off with another woman, your best friend; you get an abortion.' The pattern of your questioning is obvious. I'm going to call the police." Still pointing the laser tube in his direction she crossed the room, fished a cell phone out of her purse, and dialed 911. "I need the police. I've been harassed by a sexual deviant…No, he's still here, I have him subdued…In my dressing room, at the Gold Coast Theater…yes, I'll stay on the line."

"What you're doing," Blaine said, with relief, "is the best idea possible." Yet it seemed strange to him that Rachel had decided to do this. Why didn't she simply kill him? Once the police arrived her chance would disappear and it would all go his way.

She must think she's human, he decided. Obviously she doesn't know.

A few minutes later, during which Rachel carefully kept the laser tube on him while running scales – "I can't waste time preparing for the show, just because you chose to harass me" – a tall, lanky, muscular harness bull arrived in his archaic blue uniform with gun and star. "All right, ma'am," he said to Rachel. "Put that thing away." She set down the laser tube and he picked it up to examine it, to see if it carried a charge. "Now, what's going on here?" he asked her. Before she could answer he turned to Blaine. "Who are you?" he demanded.

Rachel said, "He came into my dressing room. I've never seen him before in my life. He pretended to be taking a poll or something and he wanted to ask me questions. I thought it was all right and I said okay, and then he began asking obscene questions." Holding the back of her hand to her forehead, she continued dramatically, "I suppose that's the price of stardom."

"Let's see your identification," the harness bull said to Blaine, his hand extended.

As he got out his ID Blaine said, "I'm a bounty hunter with the department."

"I know all the bounty hunters," the police officer said as he examined Blaine's wallet. "With the S.F.P.D.?"

"My supervisor is Jake Puckerman," Blaine said. "I've taken over Shannon Beiste's list, now that Shannon's in the hospital."

"As I say, I know all the bounty hunters," the harness bull said, "and I've never heard of you." He handed Blaine's ID back to him.

"Call Chief Puckerman," Blaine said.

"There isn't any Chief Puckerman," the harness bull said.

It came to Blaine what was going on. "You're an android," he said to the harness bull. "Like Miss Berry here." Grabbing his phone he said, "I'm going to call the department." He wondered how far he would get before the two androids stopped him.

"The number," the harness bull said, "is – "

"I know the number." Blaine hit the speed dial and presently had the police receptionist. "Let me talk to Chief Puckerman," he said.

"Who is calling, please?"

"This is Blaine Anderson." He stood waiting; meanwhile, off to one side, the harness bull was getting a statement from Rachel Berry. Rachel made a lot of dramatic hand gestures as she told her story. Neither paid any attention to Blaine.

A pause and then Jake Puckerman's face appeared on the screen. "What's doing?" he asked Blaine.

"Some trouble," Blaine said. "One of those on Shannon's list managed to call in and get a so-called patrolman out here. I can't seem to prove to him who I am. He says he knows all the bounty hunters in the department and he's never heard of me." He added, "He hasn't heard of you, either."

Puckerman said, "Let me talk to him."

"Chief Puckerman wants to talk to you." Blaine held out the phone. The harness bull ceased questioning Rachel Berry and came over to take it.

"Officer Ryder Lynn," the harness bull said briskly. A pause. "Hello?" He listened, said hello several times more, then handed the phone back to Blaine. "There's nobody on the line. And nobody on the screen."

Blaine saw the screen was dark, but he said "Puckerman?" anyway. He redialed the number. The phone rang, but no one answered it. It rang on and on.

"Let me try," officer Lynn said, pulling out his own phone. "You must have misdialed." He punched in the numbers. "The number is 842 – "

"I know the number," Blaine said. "It's programmed on my phone."

"Officer Ryder Lynn calling in," he said. "Is there a Chief Puckerman connected with the department?" A short pause. "Well, what about a bounty hunter named Blaine Anderson?" Again a pause. "You're sure? Could he have recently – oh I see; okay, thanks. No, I have it under control." Officer Lynn ended the call and turned toward Blaine.

"I had him on the line," Blaine said. "I talked to him; he said he'd talk to you. It must be phone trouble. A dropped call or a bad connection. Didn't you see – Puckerman's face showed up on the screen and then it didn't." He felt bewildered.

Officer Lynn said, "I have Ms. Berry's statement, Anderson. So let's go down to the Hall of Justice so I can book you."

"Okay," Blaine said. To Rachel he said, "I'll be back soon. I'm still not finished testing you."

"He's a deviant," Rachel said to Ryder Lynn. "He gives me the creeps." She sniffed, tears forming in her eyes. "I don't feel very safe."

Officer Lynn turned toward Blaine with a look of disgust. As soon as his back was turned to Rachel, Blaine saw her lips turn upward in a triumphant smile. Sniffing again, she added "I just hope that I can use this feeling of fear when I'm on the stage, so this won't be an entirely devastating experience."

"What play are you getting ready to perform?" Officer Lynn asked, turning back to Rachel, who was busily dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

"Funny Girl," Blaine said.

"I didn't ask you; I asked her." The harness bull gave him a glance of dislike.

"I'm anxious to get to the Hall of Justice," Blaine said. "This matter should be straightened out." He started toward the door of the dressing room, gripping his briefcase.

"I'll search you first." Officer Lynn deftly frisked him, and came up with Blaine's service pistol and laser tube. He appropriated both, after a moment of sniffing the muzzle of the pistol. "This has been fired recently," he said.

"I retired an andy just now," Blaine said. "The remains are still in my car, up on the roof."

"Okay," Officer Lynn said carefully. "We'll go up and have a look."

As the two of them started from the dressing room, Ms. Berry followed as far as the door. "He won't come back again, will he, officer? I'm really afraid of him. He's so strange." She looked up at him with wide eyes, blinking innocently.

"If he's got the body of someone he killed upstairs in his car," Lynn said, "he won't be coming back." He nudged Blaine forward and, together, the two of them ascended by elevator to the roof of the theater.

Opening the door of Blaine's car, Officer Lynn silently inspected the body of Azimio Adams.

"An android," Blaine said. "I was sent after him. He almost got me by pretending to be – "

"They'll take your statement at the Hall of Justice," Officer Lynn interrupted. He nudged Blaine over to his plainly marked police hovercar. There, by police radio, he put in a call for someone to come pick up Adams. "Okay, Anderson," he said. "Let's get started."

With the two of them aboard, the patrol car lifted from the roof and headed south.

Something, Blaine noticed, was not as it should be. Officer Lynn had steered the car in the wrong direction.

"The Hall of Justice," Blaine said, "is north, on Lombard."

"That's the old Hall of Justice," Officer Lynn said. "The new one is on Mission. That old building, it's disintegrating. It's a ruin. Nobody's used that for years. Has it been that long since you last got booked?"

"Take me there," Blaine said. "To Lombard Street." He understood it all, now; saw what the androids, working together, had achieved. He would not live beyond this ride; for him it was the end, as it had almost been for Shannon – and probably eventually would be.

"That girl's quite a looker," Officer Lynn said. "Very trim figure, pretty eyes, nice legs."

Blaine said, "Admit to me that you're an android."

"Why? I'm not an android. What do you do, roam around killing people and telling yourself they're androids? I can see why Ms. Berry was scared. It's a good thing for her that she called us."

"Then take me to the Hall of Justice, on Lombard."

"Like I said – "

"It'll take about three minutes," Blaine said. "I want to see it. Every morning I check in for work, there; I want to see that it's been abandoned for years, as you say."

"Maybe you're an android," Officer Lynn said. "With a false memory, like they give them. Had you thought of that?" He frowned, meeting Blaine's eyes in the rear view mirror as he continued to drive south.

Conscious of his defeat, Blaine settled back. And, helplessly, waited to see what came next. Whatever the androids had planned, they now had physical possession of him.

But I did get one of them, he told himself. I got Adams. And Shannon got two.

Hovering over Mission, Officer Lynn's police car prepared to descend for its landing.


	10. Parallels

The Mission Street Hall of Justice building, onto the roof of which the hovercar descended, jutted up in a series of baroque, ornamental spires, complicated and modern. Blaine Anderson found the structure attractive – except for one aspect. He had never seen it before.

The police hovercar landed and a few minutes later, Blaine found himself being booked.

"304," Officer Lynn said to the sergeant at the desk. "And 612.4 and let's see. Falsely representing himself to be a police officer."

"406.7," the desk sergeant said, filling out the forms. He wrote leisurely, in a slightly bored manner. Routine business, his posture and expression declared. Nothing of importance.

"Over here," Officer Lynn said to Blaine, leading him to a small white table at which a technician operated familiar equipment. "For your cephalic pattern," Lynn said. "For identification purposes."

"I know," Blaine said brusquely. In the old days, when he had been a harness bull himself, he had brought many suspects to a table like this. _Like _this, but not this particular table.

His cephalic pattern taken, he found himself being led off to an equally familiar room. Reflexively he began assembling his valuables for transfer. It makes no sense, he said to himself. Who are these people? If this place has always existed, _why didn't we know about it? _And why don't they know about us? Two parallel police agencies, ours and this one. But never coming in contact – as far as I know – until now. Or maybe they have, he thought. Maybe this isn't the first time. Hard to believe, he thought, that this wouldn't have happened long ago. If this really is a police apparatus, here. It it's what it asserts itself to be.

A woman, not in uniform, detached herself from the spot at which she had been standing and approached Blaine at a measured, unruffled pace. Her moves were graceful, like those of a dancer. She gazed at Blaine curiously. "What's this one?" she asked Officer Lynn.

"Blaine Anderson. Brought him in for suspected homicide," Lynn answered. "We have a body – we found it in his car – but he claims it's an android. We're checking it out, giving it a bone marrow analysis at the lab. And posing as a police officer, a bounty hunter. To gain access to a woman's dressing room in order to ask her suggestive questions. She doubted he was what he said he was and called us in. Stepping back, Ryder Lynn said, "Do you want to finish up with him, ma'am?"

"All right." The senior police official, not in uniform, blonde and trim, eyed Blaine, then reached for his briefcase. "What do you have in here, Mr. Anderson?"

Blaine said, "Material pertaining to the Voigt-Kampff personality test. I was testing a suspect when Officer Lynn arrested me." He watched as the police official rummaged through the contents of the briefcase, examining each item as she held it between long, delicate fingers. "The questions I asked Ms. Berry are standard Voigt-Kampff questions, printed on the – "

"Do you know Lauren Zizes and Sebastian Smythe?" the police official asked.

"No," Blaine said. Neither name meant anything to him.

"They're the bounty hunters attached to our department. Maybe you'll run into them while you're here. Are you an android, Mr. Anderson? The reason I ask is that several times in the past we've had escaped andys turn up posing as out-of-state bounty hunters here in pursuit of a suspect."

Blaine said, "I'm not an android. You can administer the Voigt-Kampff test to me. I've taken it before and I don't mind taking it again. But I know what the results will be. Can I call my wife?"

"You're allowed one call. Would you rather phone her than a lawyer?"

"I'll phone my wife," Blaine said. "She can get a lawyer for me."

The police official pointed toward a screen and a receiver. "You can make a video call over there." She watched as Blaine crossed the room to the phone. Then she returned to her careful examination of his briefcase.

Blaine dialed his home phone number and stood for what seemed like an eternity, waiting.

A woman's face appeared on the screen. "Hello," she said.

It was not Tina. He had never seen the woman before in his life.

He hung up, walked slowly back to the police official.

"No luck?" she asked. "Well, you can make another call. We have a liberal policy in that regard. I can't offer you the opportunity of calling a bondsman because your offense is unbailable, at present. When you're arraigned, however – "

"I know," Blaine said acridly. "I'm familiar with police procedure.

"Here's your briefcase," she said, handing it back to Blaine. "Come into my office. I'd like to talk with you further." She started down a side hall, leading the way. Blaine followed. Then, pausing and turning, she said, "My name is July. Police chief Cassandra July." She held out her hand and they shook. She had a firm grip. "Sit down," she said as she opened her office door and slipped behind a large, uncluttered desk. In place of a chair she sat on a large, gray exercise ball. "It's good for the back. Builds the abdominal muscles," she said in response to Blaine's questioning look.

Blaine seated himself on a regular chair facing the desk.

"This Voigt-Kampff test," Cassandra July said, "that you mentioned." She indicated Blaine's briefcase. "All that material you carry." She stretched from side to side for a moment, then leaned forward. "It's an analytical tool for detecting andys?"

"It's our basic test,' Blaine said. "The only one we currently employ. The only one capable of distinguishing the new Nexus-6 brain unit. You haven't heard of this test?"

"I've heard of several profile-analysis scales for use with androids. But not that one." She continued to study Blaine intently, her face rigid. Blaine couldn't fathom what she was thinking. "Those smudged papers that you have in your briefcase," Chief July continued, "Azimio Adams, Rachel Berry…your assignments. The next one is me."

Blaine stared at her, then grabbed for the briefcase. In a moment the sheets lay spread out before him. Cassandra had told the truth. Blaine examined the sheet. Neither of them spoke for a time. At last, Chief July cleared her throat nervously.

'It's an unpleasant sensation," she said. "To find yourself a bounty hunter's assignment all of a sudden. Or whatever it is you are, Anderson." She pressed a key on her desk intercom and said, "Send one of the bounty hunters in here. I don't care which one. Okay, thanks." She released the key. "Sebastian Smythe will be in here a minute or so from now," she said. "I want to see his list before I proceed."

"You think I might be on his list," Blaine said.

"It's possible. We'll know pretty soon. Best to be sure about these critical matters. Best not to leave it to chance. This info sheet about me." She indicated the smudged carbon. "It doesn't list me as a police chief. It inaccurately gives my occupation as a dance instructor. Otherwise it's correct, as to physical description, age, personal habits, home address. Yes, it's me, all right. Look for yourself." She pushed the page to Blaine, who picked it up and glanced over it again.

The door opened and a tall, thin man with chestnut hair and green eyes appeared. He stopped in the doorway, his eyes sweeping up and down Blaine's body in a way that made his skin burn. He's handsome, Blaine noted. His gaze was cold and calculating, but there was something else – a coldness that now seemed to pervade the room. Blaine shivered involuntarily. The man smirked and raised an eyebrow at him, before turning his attention to Chief July.

She rose, indicating Blaine.

"Sebastian Smythe, Blaine Anderson. You're both bounty hunters and it's probably time you met."

Sebastian shook Blaine's hand, holding it in his grasp for a few beats too long, giving Blaine an appraising look. "Mr. Anderson, what a pleasure. Which city are you attached to?"

Chief July cut in dryly, "San Francisco." At this, Sebastian whipped around, dropping Blaine's hand. "Here, take a look at his schedule," she handed Sebastian the sheaf of papers, then neatly plucked the one with her description from Blaine's hand and passed that along, too. "This one comes up next."

"Say, Cassandra," Sebastian said. "This is you."

"There's more," she said gravely. "He's also got Rachel Berry – the Broadway singer – on his list of retirement assignments. And Azimio Adams. Remember him? He's now dead. This bounty hunter, or android, or whatever he is," she said, glancing at Blaine with distaste, "got him. We're running a bone marrow test at the lab. To see if there's any conceivable basis – "

"Azimio Adams – I've met him," Smythe said. "That big Santa Claus from the W.P.O.?" He pondered, rubbing his chin. "I don't think it's a good idea to run a bone marrow test on him."

"Why do you say that?" Cassandra asked, clearly annoyed. "It's to remove any legal basis on which this man Anderson can claim that he hasn't killed anyone; that he simply 'retired an android.' Likely excuse," she muttered.

Sebastian Smythe said, "Adams always struck me as cold. Extremely cerebral and calculating; detached."

"You mean like yourself? And me?" Cassandra said, visibly nettled. "A lot of police are that way. We have to be, to do our jobs well."

"I've seen Rachel Berry perform at the Gold Coast Theater. Amazing voice. I never met her in person, but from what I've heard she has quite a grating personality." To Blaine he said, "Did you test her out?"

"I started to," Blaine said. "But I couldn't get an accurate reading. She called your police department. That ended it."

"And Adams?" Sebastian asked.

"I never got a chance to test him either."

Sebastian said, mostly to himself, 'And I assume you haven't had an opportunity to test out Cassandra, here."

"Of course not," she interjected, her face wrinkled with indignation. "And you should call me Chief July. I've earned that level of respect, Sebastian."

"What test do you use?" Sebastian asked Blaine, ignoring his superior.

"The Voigt-Kampff scale."

"Don't know that particular one." Both Sebastian and Chief July seemed deep in rapid, professional thought – but not in unison. "I've always said," he continued, "that the best place for an android would be with a big police organization such as W.P.O. Ever since I first met Adams I wanted to test him, but no pretext ever arose. It never would have, either…which is one of the values such as spot would have for an enterprising android."

Rising gracefully from her exercise ball, Chief July faced Sebastian and said, "Have you wanted to test me, too?"

A discreet smile traveled across Sebastian Smythe's face. He started to answer, then shrugged. And remained silent. He did not seem afraid of his superior, despite Cassandra July's palpable wrath.

"I don't think you understand the situation," July said. "This man – or android – Blaine Anderson comes to us from a phantom, hallucinatory, nonexistent police agency allegedly operating out of the old departmental headquarters on Lombard. He's never heard of us and we've never heard of him – yet ostensibly we're both working the same side of the street. He employs a test we've never heard of. The list he carries around isn't of androids; it's a list of human beings. He's already killed – at least once. And if Ms. Berry hadn't called us in he probably would have killed her and then eventually he would have come sniffing around after me."

"Hmm," Sebastian Smythe said.

"Hmm," Cassandra mimicked, wrathfully. She looked, now, as if she bordered on apoplexy. "Is that all you have to say?"

The intercom came on and a female voice said, "Chief July, the lab report on Mr. Adams' corpse is ready."

"I think we should hear it," Sebastian said smugly.

Chief July glanced at him, seething. Then she bent down and pressed the intercom key. "Let's have it, Miss Motta.

"The bone marrow test," Ms. Motta said, "shows that Mr. Adams was a humanoid robot. Do you want a detailed – "

"No, that's enough." Chief July settled back, balancing on the large gray ball. She grimly contemplated the far wall and said nothing to either Blaine or Sebastian.

Sebastian said, "What is the basis of your Voigt-Kampff test, Mr. Anderson?"

"Empathic response. In a variety of social situations. Mostly having to do with animals."

"Ours is probably simpler," Sebastian said. "The reflex-arc response taking place in the upper ganglia of the spinal column requires several nanoseconds more in the humanoid robot than in a human nervous system."

Reaching across Chief July's desk as if she weren't even there, he plucked a pad of paper toward him. With a ball-point pen he drew a sketch. "We use an audio signal or a light-flash. The subject presses a button and the elapsed time is measured. We try it a number of times, of course. Elapsed time varies in both androids and humans. But by the time ten reactions have been measured, we believe we have a reliable clue. And, as in your case with Adams, the bone marrow test backs us up."

An interval of silence passed and then Blaine said, "You can test me out. I'm ready. Of course I'd like to test you, too. If you're willing."

"Naturally," Sebastian said breezily. He was, however, studying Chief July. "I've said for years," Sebastian murmured, "that the Boneli Reflex-Arc Test should be applied routinely and regularly to police personnel, the higher up the chain of command the better. Haven't I, Chief?"

"That's right, you have," Cassandra replied. "And I've always opposed it. On the grounds that it would lower department morale."

"I think now," Blaine said, "you're going to have to sit still for it. In view of your lab's report on Adams."


	11. Alliance

Chief Cassandra July said resignedly, "Yes, I suppose we should all take the test." She jabbed a finger at Sebastian. "But I'm warning you; you're not going to like the results."

"Do you know what they'll be?" Sebastian asked snidely. He did not look pleased.

"I know almost to a hair," Cassandra said curtly.

Sebastian fixed her with an expression of disdain and gestured with mock grandeur, as though inviting her to continue with her prediction. Cassandra pointedly ignored him. With a huff, Sebastian said, "Fine. Have it your way. I'll go upstairs and get the Boneli gear." He strode to the door of the office, opened it, and disappeared out into the hall. "I'll be back in a few minutes," he said to Blaine, looking him up and down once more with a self-assured smirk.

Reaching into the top drawer of her desk, Chief July fumbled about, then brought forth a laser tube and pointed it at Blaine.

"That's not going to make any difference," Blaine said. "Smythe will have a postmortem run on me, the same as your lab ran on Azimio Adams. And he'll still insist on a – what did you call it – Boneli Reflex-Arc Test on you and on himself."

Keeping the laser tube trained on Blaine, Cassandra fumbled in the drawer again and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. Clenching it between her legs, she twisted off the cap and poured some into an opaque glass on her desk. She put the bottle back in the drawer and took a long swig from the cup, the laser tube pointing at Blaine the whole time. Finally, she said, "It was a bad day all day. Especially when I saw Officer Lynn bring you in. I had an intuition – that's why I intervened." By degrees she lowered the laser beam and sighed. She turned it over in her hands a few times before returning it to the drawer, locking the drawer, and placing the key in her pocket.

"What will the tests on the three of us show?" Blaine asked.

Chief July said, "That damned fool Smythe."

"He doesn't know?"

"He doesn't know; he doesn't suspect; he doesn't have the slightest idea. Otherwise he couldn't live out his life as a bounty hunter. It's a human occupation after all, hardly an android's preferred choice of job." Chief July gestured toward Blaine's briefcase. "Those other printed sheets, the other suspects you're supposed to test and retire. I know them all." She paused, then said, "We all came here together on the same ship from Mars. Not Smythe. He stayed behind another week, receiving the synthetic memory system." She was silent, then.

Or rather, it was silent.

Blaine said, "What'll he do when he finds out?"

"I don't have the foggiest idea," Cassandra said remotely, taking a moment to take a few more long gulps of her spiked drink. "It ought, from an abstract, intellectual viewpoint, to be interesting. He may kill me, kill himself; maybe you, too. He may kill everyone he can, human and android alike. I understand that such things happen, when there's been a synthetic memory system laid down. When one thinks it's human."

"So when you do that, you're taking a chance."

Chief July said, "It's a chance anyway, breaking free and coming here to Earth, where we're not even considered animals. Where every worm and wood louse is considered far more desirable than all of us put together." Irritably, Cassandra shoved back a cuticle with a fingernail from the other hand, then took another swig of her drink. "Your position would be better if Sebastian Smythe could pass the Boneli test, if it was just me. The results, that way, would be predictable. To Smythe I'd just be another andy to retire as soon as possible. So you're not in a good position either, Anderson. Almost as bad, in fact, as I am. You know where I guessed wrong? I didn't know about Adams. He must have come here earlier. In another group entirely – no contact with ours. He was already entrenched in the W.P.O. when I arrived. I took a chance on the lab report, which I shouldn't have. Ryder Lynn, of course, took the same chance."

"Azimio Adams was almost my finish, too," Blaine said.

"Yes, there was something about him. I don't think he could have been the same brain unit type as the rest of us. He must have been souped up or tinkered with – an altered structure, unfamiliar even to us. A good one, too. Almost good enough."

"I might have met another souped up model. But souped up in a different way. I never would have picked him out as an android without running my test, and even then, it took a lot more questions with him than it usually does," Blaine said, looking into the distance and seeing the chestnut hair, blue eyes, and lithe figure that seemed to haunt him since this morning.

"Which one?" Cassandra asked curiously, looking at the sheaf of papers in Blaine's briefcase.

"He wasn't on my list," Blaine said. Quickly he switched topics. "When I phoned my apartment, why didn't I get my wife?"

"All our phone lines here are trapped. They recirculate the call to other offices within the building. This is a homeostatic enterprise we're operating here, Anderson. We're a closed loop, cut off from the rest of San Francisco. We know about them but they don't know about us. Sometimes an isolated person such as yourself wanders in here or, as in your case, is brought here – for our protection." She gestured toward the office door. "Here comes eager beaver Sebastian Smythe back with his handy dandy portable little test. Isn't he clever? He's going to destroy his own life and mine and possibly yours."

"You androids," Blaine said, "don't exactly cover for each other in times of stress."

Chief July snarled, "I think you're right; it would seem we lack a specific talent you humans possess. I believe it's called empathy."

The office door opened; Sebastian Smythe stood outlined, carrying a device which trailed wires. "Here we are," he said, closing the door after him. He seated himself, plugging the device into an electrical outlet near his chair.

Bringing out her right hand, Cassandra pointed at Sebastian. At once Sebastian and Blaine rolled from their chairs and onto the floor; at the same time, Sebastian yanked a laser tube from his pocket and, as he fell, fired at Cassandra.

The laser beam, aimed with skill, based on years of training, bifurcated Chief Cassandra July's head. She slumped forward and, from her hand, her miniaturized laser beam rolled across the surface of her desk. The corpse teetered on the exercise ball for a brief moment before sliding off and crashing to the floor.

"It forgot," Sebastian said smugly, "that this is my job. I can almost foretell what an android is going to do. I suppose you can, too." Rising to his feet, he put his laser tube away, bent, and with curiosity, examined the body of his former supervisor. "What did it say to you while I was gone?"

"That she – it – was an android. And you – " Blaine broke off, the conduits of his brain humming, calculating, and selecting; he altered what he had started to say. " – would detect it," he finished. "In a few more minutes."

"What else?" Sebastian demanded, giving Blaine a knowing look.

"This building is android-infested."

Smythe said introspectively, "That's going to make it hard for you and me to get out of here. Nominally I have the authority to leave any time I want, of course. And to take a prisoner with me." He listened. No sound came from beyond the office. "I guess they didn't hear anything. There's evidently no bug installed here, monitoring everything…as there should be." Gingerly, he nudged the body of the android with the toe of his shoe. "It certainly is remarkable, the sixth sense you develop in this business. I knew before I opened the office door that she would take a shot at me. Frankly, I'm surprised she didn't kill you while I was upstairs."

"She almost did," Blaine said. "She had a big utility-model laser beam on me part of the time. She was considering it. But it was you she was worried about, not me."

"The android flees," Sebastian said humorlessly, "where the bounty hunter pursues. You realize, don't you, that you're going to have to double back to the Gold Coast Theater and get Rachel Berry before anyone here has a chance to warn her as to how this came out. Warn it, I should say. Keep them in their proper place. You call them 'it', don't you?"

"I did at one time," Blaine said. "When my conscience bothered me about the kind of work I do. I protected myself by thinking of them that way, but now I no longer find it necessary. All right, I'll head directly back to the theater. Assuming you can get me out of here."

"Oh I'll take care of you, don't you worry about that," Sebastian said, leaning a bit too close for Blaine's comfort. Blaine took a step back and Sebastian laughed.

Turning to the body, Sebastian said, "Suppose we sit her up at her desk? Get me a regular chair, would you?" Sebastian pushed the exercise ball toward the far corner of the room and dragged the corpse of the android upwards and into the chair Blaine brought around from in front of the desk. He arranged its arms and legs so that its posture appeared reasonably natural – if no one looked closely or came into the office. Pressing a key on the intercom, Sebastian said smoothly, "Chief July has asked that no calls be put through to her for the next half hour. She's involved in work that cannot be disturbed."

"Yes, Mr. Smythe."

Releasing the intercom key, Sebastian turned to Blaine with a sly grin, dangling a set of handcuffs in front of Blaine's face. "I'm going to cuff you to me while we're still in the building. But don't get too many kinky ideas," he said teasingly, "I'm going to let you go once we're airborne." He grabbed Blaine's wrist and pulled it toward him. The sensual, massaging touch before he closed the cuffs with a snap was so brief and unexpected that Blaine couldn't be sure whether it was real or imagined. Either way, it awakened something deep and secret within his gut, and Blaine cursed himself once again for his dangerous and inconvenient attractions. Drinking in Sebastian's face with wide eyes, he realized the man was handsome and the element of danger he exuded was exciting. At the same time, the man – or rather the android – had that quality Blaine hated most about the machines he hunted. That repulsive, aloof coldness, so ubiquitous in the humanoid robot.

"Okay lover boy," Sebastian said brusquely to a startled Blaine, who hadn't realized he had been staring, open-mouthed, at him, "let's go." Sebastian squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and pushed open the office door.

Uniformed police stood or sat on every side, conducting their routine business of the day. None of them glanced up or paid any attention as Sebastian Smythe led Blaine across the lobby to the elevator.

"What I'm afraid of," Sebastian said softly into Blaine's ear as they waited for the elevator, "is that – the one back there – had a dead man's throttle warning component built into it. But – " He shrugged. "I would have expected it to go off by now; otherwise it's not much good."

The elevator arrived. Several men and women, some in uniform and some in plain clothes, got off the elevator and clacked off across the lobby on their several errands. They paid no attention to Blaine or Sebastian.

"Do you think your department will take me on?" Sebastian asked, as the elevator doors shut, closing the two of them inside. He punched the roof button and the elevator silently rose. "After all, as of now I'm out of a job. To say the least." Raising an eyebrow suggestively, he added, "Besides, it would give us the opportunity to spend some more _quality time _together."

Ignoring the last comment, Blaine said guardedly, "I – don't see why not. Except that we already have two bounty hunters." I've got to tell him, he said to himself. It's unethical and cruel not to. Mr. Smythe, you're an android, he thought to himself. You got me out of this place and here's your reward; you're everything we jointly despise. The essence of what we're committed to destroy.

"I can't get over it," Sebastian said. "It doesn't seem possible. For three years I've been working under the direction of androids. Why didn't I suspect? I mean, obviously I did, but not enough to do something."

"Maybe it hasn't been that long," Blaine offered. "Maybe they only recently infiltrated this building."

"They've been here all the time. Chief July has been my superior from the start, throughout my three years."

"According to it," Blaine said, "the bunch of them came to Earth together. And that wasn't as long ago as three years. It's only been a matter of months."

"Then at one time an authentic Cassandra July existed," Sebastian said. "And somewhere along the way got replaced." His sharp face twisted and he struggled to understand. "Or – I've been implanted with a false memory system. Maybe I only remember July over the whole time. But – " His face, suffused now with growing torment, continued to twist and work spastically. "Only androids show up with false memory systems. It's been shown ineffective in humans."

The elevator reached its destination. The doors slid back, and there, spread out in front of them, deserted except for the empty vehicles, was the police station's roof field.

"Here's my car," Sebastian said, unlocking the door of a nearby hovercar and waving Blaine inside. He leaned in close, looking into Blaine's eyes and for a moment, Blaine thought Sebastian was going to kiss him. He froze, not even breathing, until he felt the key click in the handcuff lock and suddenly his wrist was released and Sebastian was shutting his door and moving over to the driver's side of the vehicle. Blaine sucked in a few deep breaths, heart racing more than could be explained by the tension of walking through the false police building, and sternly told himself to pull himself together.

Sebastian got in behind the wheel and started up the motor. In a moment they had lifted into the sky and, turning north, headed back in the direction of the Gold Coast Theater. Preoccupied, Sebastian drove by reflex; his progressively more gloomy train of thought dominating his attention. "Listen, Anderson," he said suddenly. "After we retire Rachel Berry – I want you to – " His voice, husky and tormented, broke off. "You know. Give me the Boneli test or that empathy scale you have. To see about me."

"We can worry about that later," Blaine said evasively.

"You don't want me to take it, do you?" Sebastian glared at him sulkily. "I guess you think you know what the results will be. Cassandra must have told you something. Facts that I don't know."

Blaine said, "It's going to be hard even for the two of us to take out Rachel Berry. She's more than I could handle, anyhow. Let's keep our attention focused on that."

"My life for the last three years is not just a false memory," Sebastian says, confidence creeping back into his voice. "I own an animal. Not a false one but the real thing. A chipmunk. I love the chipmunk, Anderson. Every goddamn morning I feed it and clean up its cage. And in the evening, when I get off of work, I let it loose in my apartment and it runs all over the place. It has a wheel in its cage. Ever seen a chipmunk running inside a wheel? It runs and runs, the wheel spins, but the chipmunk stays in the same spot. Acorn seems to like it, though."

"I guess chipmunks aren't too bright," Blaine said.

They flew on, then, in silence.


	12. Tested

At the theater, Blaine Anderson and Sebastian Smythe were informed that the rehearsal had ended. And Ms. Berry had left.

"Did she say where she was going?" Sebastian asked the stagehand, showing his police identification.

"Over to the museum." The stagehand studied the ID card. "She said she wanted to take in the traveling exhibit they have of Broadway memorabilia. It ends tomorrow."

And Rachel Berry, Blaine thought to himself, ends today.

As the two of them walked down the sidewalk to the museum, Sebastian said, "What do you want to bet that she's run off? That we won't find her at the museum?"

"Maybe," Blaine said noncommittally.

They arrived at the museum building, noted that the traveling show 'Remnants of the Stage: Movies and Memorabilia of Broadway' could be found on the fourth floor, and ascended. They wandered among the labyrinth of small rooms housing framed photographs and playbills, screens playing clips from famous movie musicals, and famous costumes and props behind glass. Many people had turned out for the exhibit, including a grammar school class. The shrill voice of the teacher penetrated all the rooms comprising the exhibit, and Blaine thought, That's what you'd expect an andy to sound – and look – like. Instead of like Kurt Hummel and Rachel Berry, or even the man beside him. Thing – not a man – he corrected himself, annoyed to feel a faint flush of arousal at Sebastian's proximity, even if he – it – was rather handsome.

"Did you ever hear of an andy having a pet of any sort?" Sebastian asked him.

Sebastian annoyed him, but at the same time, Blaine wanted to answer honestly. "In two cases that I've heard of, andys owned and cared for animals. But it's rare. And from what I've learned, it rarely lasts long. Usually an andy can't keep an animal alive, unless maybe if it's a reptile or an insect. Animals need a loving environment to thrive."

"Well, there you go," Sebastian said with relief. "Because Acorn, my chipmunk, is doing fine. He's as sleek as an otter. I groom and comb him every day."

"There's Rachel." Blaine pointed and the two of them walked toward her with a measured pace; taking their time as though nothing confronted them. As always it was vital to preserve the atmosphere of the commonplace. Other humans, having no knowledge of the presence of androids among them, had to be protected at all costs – even that of losing the quarry.

Holding a printed catalogue, Rachel Berry, wearing a short, purple corduroy skirt with ivory leggings, high heeled boots, and a form-fitting ivory sweater, stood absorbed in the picture before her: a black and white portrait of Barbra Streisand, a profile shot with her hair swept back from her head and piled into an elaborate sculpture of curls.

"Want me to buy it for you?" Blaine said, sidling close to Rachel's side, informing her by his proximity that he had possession of her and didn't have to struggle to detain her. Sebastian stood close to her on the other side, the outline of his laser tube just visible beneath his shifting jacket.

"It's an original portrait with her signature on it, I doubt it's for sale," she said pointedly, eyes still locked on the framed photograph. "And while I'm flattered, I really am not looking to date. I'm pretty focused on my career right now, so if you'll please just – " Rachel glanced at him idly, then jolted violently as she recognized him, bemused boredom replaced by intense fear in an instant. Blaine caught her lightly by the upper arm, holding her in place. "I thought they arrested you," she said. "Do you mean they let you _go_?"

"Ms. Berry," he said, "this is Mr. Smythe. Sebastian Smythe, this is the quite well-known star of the theater Rachel Berry." To Rachel he said, "The harness bull that arrested me is an android. So was his superior. Do you know – did you know – a Chief Cassandra July? She told me that you all came here in one ship as a group."

Rachel's face remained impassive, but she did flinch almost imperceptively at the mention of Cassandra July. She looked from Blaine to Sebastian nervously and remained silent.

"The police department that you called," Sebastian added, "operating out of a building on Mission, is the organizing agency by which it would appear your group keeps in touch. They even feel confident enough to hire a human bounty hunter, evidently – "

Breaking into a laugh, Rachel said disdainfully, "You? You're not human. No more than I am. You're an android, too."

An interval of silence passed and then Sebastian said in a low but controlled voice, "Well, we'll deal with that at the proper time." To Blaine he said, "Let's take her to my car."

One on each side of her, they prodded her toward the museum elevator. Rachel Berry did not come willingly, but on the other hand, she did not actively resist. Androids, as Blaine knew from experience, had an innate desire to remain inconspicuous. In the museum, with so many people roaming around, Rachel Berry would do nothing. The real encounter would take place in the car, where no one else could see. Alone, with appalling abruptness, she could shed her inhibitions. He prepared himself, and didn't think about Sebastian Smythe. As he had said, it would be dealt with at a proper time.

At the end of the corridor near the elevators, a little store-like affair had been set up to sell prints and musical scores. Rachel stopped there, tarrying. "I could have been just like her," she said, nodding toward a poster reproduction of the Barbra Streisand portrait. "If I had a little more time. I was always meant to be a star. It's in my – " she paused. Blood, DNA, all the typical phrases to explain what she meant didn't really fit her situation. "It's in the way I was made," she finally settled on, giving Blaine a pleading look. "I'm not here to hurt anyone. I just want to have a chance to do what I love and to bring other people joy through my voice."

Speaking softly, so only Rachel and Sebastian can hear, Blaine said, "It doesn't matter. It's not about what you do once you're here. It's about how you got here. And it's about showing all of those other androids on Mars that you can't get away with murder even if you do manage to escape to Earth."

"It's not fair," Rachel said equally softly, tears forming in her eyes. "I was made this way – with this beautiful voice and this burning need to be a star. But I couldn't ever get there – not on Mars where everyone knew that I was an android. Every day I was mocked by that horrible Dakota Stanley and he could force me to do anything he wanted because he _owned _me. And it wasn't enough for me to do all the cooking and cleaning and stage managing and running scales with his troupe of singing, dancing, subpar human girls with ridiculous names like Sunshine and Harmony. They taunted me and said I would never see a real stage in my life. No matter that I practiced harder and sang more beautifully and had more drive and ambition than all of them put together." Blinking back her tears, she stepped closer to Blaine, staring fiercely and barely keeping her voice at a low volume. "And why? Just because I don't have the same kind of genetic material that you do? Why does that give you the right to live your dreams while mine waste away? I would do anything – absolutely anything – to make it."

"Even kill?" Sebastian asked dryly. Rachel whipped her head around to face him, challenge blazing in her eyes.

"Only because there was no other way," she said flatly.

"Enough with the sob story," Sebastian said brusquely. "You're an android. We have to retire you."

"Allegedly," Blaine said, in a placating tone. "We still have to give you the test first. It's always possible that you're not an android." He certainly hopes not. The world could use a performer like Rachel Berry to brighten the days of people forced to plod through the layers of dust.

Rachel smiled ruefully. "I always wanted to sing everything in Barbra's repertoire. Would you buy me that songbook?" She pointed at the leather-bound volume.

"How much is it?" Blaine asked the store clerk in a loud voice, picking up the volume and carrying it to the counter.

"Twenty-five dollars," the clerk said.

"I'll take it." He reached for his wallet.

Sebastian said haughtily, "My departmental budget could never in a million years be stretched – "

"My own money," Blaine said, handing the bills over to the clerk and the book over to Rachel. "Now let's get on the elevator."

"It's very nice of you," Rachel said as they stepped through the doors. "There's something so very touching about humans. An android would never have done that." She glanced icily at Sebastian. "It wouldn't have occurred to him, as he said, never in a million years."

She flipped open the book Blaine bought her and started to sing, her face alternately pained and joyful as the painfully beautiful notes rang out, "Love, soft as an easy chair, love fresh as the morning air – "

"That's from A Star is Born," Blaine said with a smile.

"Can we get this over with," Sebastian snapped. "I honestly don't understand the love fest going on here between the two of you."

Rachel gazed at Sebastian with hostility and aversion. "I really don't like androids. Ever since I got here from Mars my life as consisted of imitating the human, doing what she would do, acting as if I had the thoughts and impulses of a human. Imitating, as far as I'm concerned, a superior life form." To Sebastian she said, "Isn't that how it's been with you, Sebastian? Trying to be – "

"I can't take this," Sebastian Smythe dug into his coat, groping for the laser tube.

"No," Blaine said, grabbing at Sebastian's hand. Sebastian retreated, eluding him. "The Boneli test," Blaine said.

"It's admitted it's an android. It even admitted to killing its owner," Sebastian said. "We don't have to wait."

"But to retire her," Blaine said, "because she's needling you – give me that." He struggled to pry the laser tube from Sebastian's fingers, but Sebastian circled back within the cramped elevator, evading him, his attention riveted on Rachel Berry. 'Okay," Blaine said. "Go ahead and kill her now. Show her that she's right." He saw, then, that Sebastian meant to. "Wait – "

Sebastian fired, and at that same moment, Rachel Berry, in a spasm of frantic hunted fear, twisted and spun away, dropping as she did so. The beam missed its mark but, as Sebastian lowered it, it burrowed a narrow hole, silently, into her stomach. She began to scream, crumpling down until she lay crouched against the wall of the elevator, screaming.

Blaine stared at Sebastian incredulously for a moment. The screaming didn't seem to bother him. He made no move to end her suffering.

Blaine raised his own laser tube, and killed her with a clean shot to the head. Her body fell face down in a heap.

With his laser tube, Blaine systematically burned into blurred ash the book he had just a few minutes ago bought for Rachel. He did the job thoroughly, saying nothing. Sebastian watched, brow furrowed, perplexed.

"You could have kept the book yourself," Sebastian said. "That cost you – "

"Do you think androids have souls?" Blaine interrupted.

Cocking his head to one side, Sebastian gazed at him in even greater puzzlement.

"I could afford the book," Blaine said. "I've made three thousand dollars so far today, and I'm not even half through."

"You're claiming July?" Sebastian asked. "But I killed her, not you. You just lay there. And Rachel, too. I got her."

"You can't collect," Blaine said. "Not from your own department and certainly not from ours. When we get to your car, I'll administer the Voigt-Kampff test or the Boneli test to you and then we'll see. Even though you're not on my list." His hands shaking, he opened his briefcase, rummaged among the crumpled printouts detailing the androids he had yet to retire. "No, you're not here. So legally I can't claim you. To make anything I'll have to claim Rachel Berry and Cassandra July."

"Are you really so sure that I'm an android? Did Cassandra tell you that?" Sebastian quirked an eyebrow. His tone was flippant, flirty even.

Blaine dropped his gaze to Rachel's body. "That's what Cassandra said."

"Well, I think she was lying," Sebastian said confidently. "To split us apart. And it's working on you. I'll even admit, it's working on me too. You were right about Rachel Berry. I shouldn't have let her get to me like that. I must be overly sensitive. But that must be natural for a bounty hunter. I'm sure you're the same way. But look; we would have had to retire her anyway. The test would have only taken a few minutes, and we both knew what the results would be." Crooking up one corner of his mouth in a smile and placing a hand on Blaine's shoulder familiarly, Sebastian continued. "She wouldn't even have had time to sing those songs in the book you got her. I don't really understand why you got it for her, anyway, and I still think you shouldn't have destroyed it." Pulling his hand back, Sebastian added, "I can't follow you reasoning. It isn't rational."

Blaine said, "I'm getting out of this business."

"To do what?"

"Anything. Teaching, maybe. Or maybe I'll emigrate to Mars and pursue a singing and acting career. Like Rachel Berry. I've always thought it would be fun to be on stage. Or composing music. Something creative. I'm sick of being a destroyer. I just want to make art – and help people." Blaine cringed at how pathetic he sounded.

"But someone has to do this," Sebastian pointed out.

"They can use androids. Much better if andys do it. I can't any more. I've had enough. She was a wonderful singer. The planet could have used her. This is insane."

"This is necessary. Remember; they killed humans in order to get away. And if I hadn't gotten you out of the Mission police station they would have killed you, too. That's what Cassandra wanted me for. That's why she had me come down to her office. Didn't Adams almost kill you? Hell, even Rachel Berry pulled a laser tube on you. We're acting defensively. They're here on our planet – they're murderous illegal aliens masquerading as – "

"As police," Blaine said. "As bounty hunters."

"Okay; fine. Give me the Boneli test. Maybe Cassandra lied. I think she did. False memories just aren't that good. And then there's my chipmunk."

"Yes, your chipmunk. I forgot about the chipmunk," Blaine said wearily.

"If I'm an andy," Sebastian said, "and you kill me, you can have my chipmunk. Here, I'll write it out, willing it to you." He reached into his pocket for a slip of paper.

"Andys can't will anything. They can't possess anything to will."

"Then just take it," Sebastian insisted.

"Maybe so," Blaine relented. The elevator had reached the first floor and its doors opened. "You stay with Rachel. I'll call a patrol car to take her to the Hall of Justice. For her bone marrow test." He walked a few feet away, pulling out his cell phone and hitting the speed dial for the police station with shaky fingers. Meanwhile, a group of people who had been waiting for the elevator gathered around Sebastian Smythe and the body of Rachel Berry.

She was really a superb singer, he said to himself as he completed his call. I don't get it. How can a talent like that be a liability to our society? But it wasn't the talent, he told himself. It was she herself. As Sebastian is, he thought. He's a menace in exactly the same way, for the same reasons. So I can't quit now. Steeling himself, he pushed his way through the small crowd, back to Sebastian and the prone figure of the android girl. Someone had put a coat over her. Not Sebastian.

Going up to Sebastian, who stood off to one side, he said, "I hope to God you do test out as an android."

"Why so hostile?" Sebastian said, marveling. "All of a sudden, you hate me. I don't remember you feeling this way about me when we were back on Mission Street. Not while I was saving your life."

"I see a pattern. The way you killed Cassandra and Rachel. You don't kill the way I do. You don't try to – Hell," he said. "I know what it is. You like to kill." Sebastian grinned bemusedly, leaning back casually against the wall near the elevator. "All you need is a pretext," continued Blaine. "That's why you picked up on Cassandra being an android. It made her available to be killed."

"What a ridiculous theory," Sebastian huffs. "I certainly don't take pleasure in killing, per se. I do enjoy my job. Escaped androids are a threat to the whole order of things. Killing them gives me the satisfaction of knowing that I am keeping people safe."

Blaine glared at Sebastian in disbelief. "You talk a good game. But I wonder what you're going to do when you fail to pass the Boneli test. Will you kill yourself?"

"Yes, I'll take care of it," Sebastian said dismissively. "You won't have to do anything, besides administering the test."

A patrol car arrived. Two policemen hopped out, strode up, saw the crowd of people and at once cleared themselves a passage through. One of them recognized Blaine and nodded. So we can go now, Blaine realized. Our business here is concluded. Finally.

As he and Sebastian walked back down the street to the Gold Coast Theater, Sebastian said, "I'll give you my laser tube now. So you won't have to worry about my reaction to the test. Or your own safety." He held out the tube and Blaine accepted it.

"How will you kill yourself without it?" Blaine asked. "If you fail the test."

"I'll hold my breath."

"Chrissake," Blaine exclaimed. "It can't be done."

"There's no automatic cut-in of the vagus nerve," Sebastian said, "in an android. As there is in a human. Weren't you taught that when you were trained? I got taught that years ago."

"But to die that way," Blaine protested, feeling protective of Sebastian in spite of the strange mixture of dislike and fascination and thrumming attraction the man – or thing – inspires.

"There's no pain. What's the matter with it?"

"It's – " He gestured, unable to find the right words.

"I really don't think I'm going to have to," Sebastian said.

Together they ascended to the roof of the theater and headed toward Sebastian's hovercar.

Sliding behind the wheel and closing his door, Sebastian said, "I would prefer it if you used the Boneli test."

"I can't. I don't know how to score it." I would have to rely on you for an interpretation of the readings, he realized. And that's out of the question.

"You'll tell me the truth, won't you?" Sebastian asked. "If I'm an android you'll tell me."

"Sure."

"Because I really do want to know. Though, as I've already said, I am pretty sure I'm going to test as human."

Opening his briefcase, Blaine fished out his test gear.

"Elaborate," Sebastian observed, watching. "How many questions do you have to ask before you can make a determination?"

"Six or seven, usually." He handed the adhesive pad to Sebastian. "Attach that to your cheek. Firmly."

"Aw, come on," Sebastian said flirtatiously, "aren't you going to help me?"

Ignoring him, Blaine aimed the light beam. Sighing, Sebastian pressed the pad to his cheek. "This light stays focused on your eye. Don't move. Keep your eyeball as steady as you can."

"Reflex fluctuations," Sebastian guessed. "But not to the physical stimulus. You're not measuring dilation, for instance. It'll be to the verbal questions. What we call a flinch reaction."

Blaine said, "Do you think you can control it?"

"Not really," Sebastian shrugged. "Eventually maybe. But not the initial amplitude. That's outside conscious control."

Blaine finished adjusting the equipment and pulled the sheaf of questions from his briefcase, hunting for the right question to start the test.

"If I test out android," Sebastian said, "you'll undergo renewed faith in the human race, won't you? But, since it's not going to work out that way, I suggest you begin framing an ideology which will account for – "

"Here's the first question," Blaine said firmly.

"Ooh, feisty," Sebastian chuckled.

Blaine stared at him until he fell silent. "Reaction time is a factor, so answer as rapidly as you can." The needles of the two dials quivered. Blaine selected an initial question. The test had begun.

{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}

Afterward, Blaine sat in silence for a long time. Then he began gathering his gear together, stuffing it back in the briefcase.

"I can tell by your face," Sebastian said gleefully, exhaling in relief. "Okay. You can give me my laser tube back." He reached out, palm up, waiting.

"Evidently you were right," Blaine said. "About Cassandra's motives. Wanting to split us up. What you said." He felt both psychologically and physically weary.

"Do you have your ideology framed?" Sebastian asked teasingly. "That would explain big, bad horrible me as part of the human race?"

Blaine said, "There is a defect in your empathic ability. One which we don't test for. You feelings toward androids."

"Of course we don't test for that," Sebastian laughed.

"Maybe we should." Blaine had never thought of it before. He didn't recall feeling empathy toward the androids he killed. Always he had assumed that he experienced the android as a clever machine, nothing more. And yet, in contrast to Sebastian Smythe, a difference had manifested itself. And he felt instinctively tht he was right. Empathy toward an artificial construct? Something that only pretends to be alive? But Rachel Berry had seemed _genuinely _alive. She had not worn the aspect of a simulation. Neither did Kurt Hummel.

"You realize," Sebastian said quietly, "what this would do. If we included androids in our range of empathic identification, as we do animals."

"We couldn't protect ourselves."

"Absolutely. These Nexus-6 types…they'd roll all over us and mash us flat. You and I – all the bounty hunters – we stand between the Nexus-6 and mankind – a barrier which keeps the two distinct. Furthermore – "

"You're romanticizing the role of bounty hunter," Blaine interjected.

"Well, it is pretty damn sexy, don't you think?" Sebastian asked pointedly, raising an eyebrow and looking at Blaine in a way that seems almost seductive. Blaine quickly looked away, embarrassed by his thoughts.

"I want to ask myself a question," Blaine said. "And I want you to tell me what the needles register. Just give me the calibration. I can compute it." He plastered the adhesive disk against his cheek, arranged the beam of light until it fed directly into his eye. "Are you ready? Watch the dials. We'll exclude time lapse in this. I just want magnitude."

"Sure, Blaine," Sebastian said obligingly.

Aloud, Blaine said, "I'm going down by elevator with an android I've captured. And suddenly someone kills it, without warning."

"No particular response," Sebastian said.

"What'd the needles hit?"

"The left one 2.8. The right one 3.3."

Blaine said, "An android with an incredible singing voice."

"Now they're up to 3.5 and 4.2 respectively."

"That's borderline," Blaine said. He thought carefully about what to ask next.

"The android is smoking hot," Sebastian said.

"What?" Blaine spluttered, whipping his head in Sebastian's direction.

"I was just messing around. Sorry," Sebastian said, without a trace of apology in his voice. "But you might be interested in this. Before you wrenched your eye out of the beam of the light, I got a reading of 5.8 on the left and 7.3 on the right. Those were well to the right of center."

"That's high enough," Blaine said, removing the adhesive disk from his cheek and shutting off the beam of light. "That's an emphatically empathic response," he said. "About what a human subject shows for most questions. Except fro the extreme ones, such as those dealing with cannibalism or human pelts used decoratively – the truly pathological ones."

"Meaning?"

Blaine said, "I'm capable of feeling empathy for at least some androids. Not for all of them, but for some, certain, particular ones." For Rachel Berry. For Kurt Hummel. So I was wrong, he told himself. There's nothing wrong with Sebastian's reactions. _It's me. _

I wonder, he thought, if any human has ever felt this way before about an android.

Of course, he reflected, this may never come up again in my work. It could be an anomaly, something to do with my feelings for old Broadway classics. And for Rachel Berry's voice, her desire and drive for a legitimate Broadway career. It was something Blaine could relate to, having similar dreams of grandeur in his youth. This hadn't come up with Adams or with Cassandra July. Although it might have been a bit harder to kill Sebastian Smythe, if he had tested out to be an android. And he could certainly never kill Kurt…

"You're in a tough spot, Anderson," Sebastian said. It seemed to amuse him.

"What do you mean?" Blaine asked.

"The 'certain particular ones' you feel empathy toward – they're the androids you want to fuck."

"Excuse me? I thought absolutely nothing of the kind about Ms. Berry," Blaine said, appalled.

"Right," Sebastian said, narrowing his eyes. "That one got a lower reading on your Voigt-Kampff contraption anyway. You must just really like her voice or something. But there is at least one other android you had in mind when I said 'smoking hot'. I'd venture you'd want to fuck that one."

"N-no," Blaine stammered, unable to look Sebastian in the eye.

"Oh wait, I get it," Sebastian crowed in delight. "It's me, isn't it? You thought I was an android, and you think I'm smoking." Sebastian gives Blaine a searing gaze. "Well, hey, it's okay to want me now. I'm human."

"No. God, no. It's not you," Blaine spluttered. After a beat too long he added, "Besides, I'm not interested in _men. _I have a wife. And that's against the law."

"That's what makes it so fun," Sebastian said, drawing out his words seductively. "It's forbidden. And it feels so damn good." After taking in Blaine's apprehensive look, he continued, "Look, it's just sex. I mean really, haven't you been attracted to an android before?" He laughed. "We were taught that it constitutes a primary challenge in bounty hunting. You do know, don't you, Anderson, that in the colonies they have android lovers?"

"It's illegal," Blaine retorted automatically.

"Sure, it's illegal. But most variations in sex are illegal. Especially the _really _fun ones. But people do it anyhow."

"What about – not sex – but love?" Blaine asked, a vision of blue eyes flashing through his mind.

"Love is another name for sex."

"Like love of country," Blaine said argumentatively. "Love of music."

"If it's love toward a woman or man that you find attractive – human or android – it's sex. Wake up and face yourself, Blaine Anderson. You wanted to go to bed with an android – nothing more, nothing less. I felt that way in the past, at least one time. Don't let it get you down. You'll heal." After a moment, he added, "But it may not be something you have to angst about for long. After all, we haven't given you a full personality profile test. You could well be an android yourself."

"Oh God, can we put that ridiculous idea to rest?" Blaine barks out angrily.

"Sure," Sebastian said cooly. "Just take the test. If you're so sure you're human, you have nothing to worry about. I did it."

"Fine, whatever." Blaine said.

"I'll have to give you the Boneli test," Sebastian said. "I don't really know how to administer yours." Sebastian pulled out the Boneli Reflex Arc equipment and set it up. He handed a set of headphones to Blaine. "Put these on." He placed a clicker with a single button into Blaine's hand. "Okay. I'm going to play a sound for you in one or both of your ears. As soon as you hear it, push the button as fast as you can. I'm going to need to repeat it a few times to make sure we account for normal variations in response times. It shouldn't take long."

{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}—{-}

The test complete, Sebastian packed his gear back into its protective case. Blaine studied his face closely, but it is an impenetrable, expressionless mask.

"So, what did it say?" Blaine demanded impatiently.

"Eager, aren't we?" Sebastian said, his leer infusing the words with a double meaning.

"Will you just tell me what is said," Blaine tried again, this time more wearily. "I really don't have time for your games."

"I'd be happy to tell you, Blaine," Sebastian said, leaning just a bit too far into Blaine's space and placing a hand lightly on his thigh. "I'll tell you the results. But first I want you to have sex with me."

Jerking his thigh away from the burning touch of Sebastian's hand, Blaine said brusquely, "Why? So you can arrest me?"

"No," Sebastian said slowly and seductively, smiling confidently in a way that makes Blaine's stomach flutter. "But I will say that you little nervous routine is super hot."

"Well, you don't have to tell me the results anymore anyway. I've figured it out, thank you very much," Blaine said.

"Really?" Sebastian asked. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because, you wouldn't want to have sex with an android."

"Did I say that?" Sebastian asked with a wink. "Because really, it doesn't bother me if it doesn't bother you."

"B-but, you said – "

"What I started to say," Sebastian jumped in, "but didn't finish, is that there's nothing wrong with feeling lustful toward an android. The only thing wrong is if you get the order reversed."

"What do you mean?" asked Blaine.

"Don't kill him – or her – or be present when he's killed, and then wish you had had sex. Do it the other way."

Blaine stared at him. "You mean, go to bed with an android first – "

" – and then kill them," Sebastian said succinctly with a hardened smile.

"I'm not going to have sex with you," Blaine insisted, stepping out of the hovercar. "I'll call a cab to get back to the police station on Lombard."

"And I'm not going to tell you the results of the test," Sebastian retorted. Dragging his eyes slowly up and down Blaine's body he said, "You'll change your mind." In a cloud of dust, the hovercar rose into the air, leaving Blaine alone on the theater's roof.

He's a good bounty hunter, Blaine realized. Your attitude proves it. But am I?

Suddenly, for the first time in his life, he had begun to wonder.


	13. Acquisition

As soon as Blaine had officially quit work that evening, he flew across town to animal row; the several blocks of big-time animal dealers with their huge glass windows and lurid signs. The new and terrifying depression, which had floored him earlier in the day, had not left. This, his activity here with animals and animal dealers, seemed he only weak spot in the shroud of depression, a flaw by which he might be able to exorcise it. In the past, anyway, the sight of animals and the excitement of money deals with expensive stakes had done much for him. Maybe it would accomplish as much now.

"Yes, sir," a well-dressed new animal salesman with a round, cherubic face said to him chattily as he stood gaping with a sort of glazed, meek need at the displays. "See anything you like?"

Blaine said, "I see a lot I like. It's the cost that bothers me."

"You tell us the deal you want to make," the salesman said conspiratorially. "What you want to take home with you and how you want to pay for it. We'll take the package to our sales manager and get his big okay."

"I've got three thousand in cash." The department, at the end of the day, had paid him the bounty. "How much," he asked, "is that family of rabbits over there?"

"Sir, if you have a down payment of three thousand, I can make you the owner of something a lot better than a pair of rabbits." He reached out a chubby hand and shook Blaine's hand firmly. "Let me introduce myself. My name is Trent." When Blaine didn't offer his own name in return, the salesman smoothly continued, "What about a goat?"

"I haven't thought much about goats," Blaine said.

"May I ask if this represents a new price bracket for you?"

"Well, I don't usually carry around three thousand dollars," Blaine conceded.

"I thought as much, sir, when you mentioned rabbits," Trent said. He looked quickly from side to side, then leaned in and lowered his voice. "The thing about rabbits, sir, is that everybody has one. I'd like to see you step up to the goat-class where I feel you belong. Frankly, you look more like a goat man to me."

"What are the advantages to goats?"

Trent said, "The distinct advantage of a goat is that it can be taught to butt anyone who tries to steal it."

"Not if they shoot it with a hypno-dart and descend by rope ladder from a hovercar," Blaine said dryly.

Undaunted and still beaming his bright smile, Trent continued, "A goat is loyal. And it has a free, natural soul which no cage can chain up. And there is one exceptional additional feature about goats, one which you may not be aware of. Often when you invest in an animal and take it home, you find, some morning, that it's eaten something radioactive and died. A goat isn't bothered by contaminated quasi-foodstuffs; it can eat eclectically, even items that would fell a cow or a horse or most especially a cat. As a long term investment we feel that the goat – especially the female – offers unbeatable advantages to the serious animal-owner."

"Is this goat a female?" He had noticed a big black goat standing squarely in the center of its cage. He moved that way and Trent followed him. The goat, it seemed to Blaine, was beautiful.

"Yes," Trent answered. "This goat is a female. A black Nubian goat, very large, as you can see. This is a superb contender in this year's market, sir. And we're offering her at a very attractive, unusually low price."

Automatically, Blaine pulls out his phone and pulls up the Sydney's app to look up the price for goats, black Nubian.

"Will this be a cash deal?" Trent asked. "Or will you be trading in a used animal?"

"All cash," Blaine said.

On a slip of paper, Trent scribbled a price and showed it to Blaine.

"Too much," Blaine said firmly, taking the paper and writing down a more modest figure.

Trent frowned. "We couldn't let a goat go for that," he protested. He wrote another figure. "I'll have you know that this goat is less than a year old. She has a very long life expectancy." He showed the figure to Blaine.

"It's a deal," Blaine said.

He signed the long-term payment contract, paid over his three thousand dollars – his entire bounty money – as down payment, and shortly found himself standing by his hovercar, rather dazed, as employees of the animal dealer loaded the crate of goat into the car. I own an animal now, he said to himself. A living animal, not electric. For the second time in my life.

The expense, the contractual indebtedness, appalled him. He found himself shaking. But I had to do it, he said to himself. The experience with Sebastian Smythe – I have to get my confidence, my faith in myself and my abilities, back. Or I won't keep my job.

His hands numb, he guided the hovercar up into the sky and headed for his apartment and Tina. She'll be angry, he said to himself. Because it'll worry her, the responsibility. And since she's home all day a lot of the maintenance will fall to her. Again he felt dismal.

When he landed on the roof of his building he sat for a time, weaving together a story thick with verisimilitude. My job requires it, he thought, scraping bottom. Prestige. We couldn't go on with the electric sheep any longer; it sapped my morale. Maybe I can tell her that, he decided.

As soon as he thought of the electric sheep, he remembered Tina telling him it had malfunctioned earlier in the day. He rushed toward its pen in a panic, almost forgetting the animal is a fake. But the sheep ruminated peacefully as usual. She must have gotten it fixed, he thought. Good.

A bit embarrassed that he had abandoned the very real animal in his car to tend to a false one, he rushed back to the car and maneuvered the goat cage from the back seat. With wheezing effort, Blaine managed to set it down on the roof. The goat, which had slid about during the transfer, regarded him with bright-eyed perspicacity, but made no sound.

He descended to his floor, followed a familiar path down the hall to his own door.

"Hi," Tina called cheerfully from the kitchen. "I hope you're hungry!"

Blaine entered the kitchen and stared in surprise at the sight of his wife, smiling and dancing about the kitchen as she cooked, her brightly-colored skirt flaring out around her legs as she spun toward him, beaming. Just hours ago she had been dressed as if for mourning, mascara running down her cheeks as she succumbed to a deep depression. He expected to have to peel her off of the floor, protesting as he peeled her off the floor and dragged her up to the roof to see their new acquisition, which was sure to bring her immediate joy. He expected her to be so grateful to him for rescuing her from her doldrums.

In a cautious and puzzled tone he asked, "What are you cooking?"

"Lazy dragon rolls and cabbage," she replied brightly.

"Since when do you cook Chinese food? I thought you pretty much hated anything Asian."

She spun around and glared at him defensively. "People change, Blaine."

He held his hands up in mock surrender. "Yeah, I know. That smells good, by the way."

"Thanks," she said slowly, turning back to the stove.

"Tina," Blaine said hesitantly, wary of breaking her out of her pleasant mood, "are you at a stopping point?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, can you stop cooking for a minute and come up to the roof with me. I need to show you something."

Tina froze for a moment, back to him, then methodically moved the pans off the heat and turned slowly toward him, her expression a mixture of pleased awe and dazed hurt. "You got an animal," she breathed.

Blaine couldn't control the wide grin that broke out on his face. "She's a goat. She's beautiful." Reaching for Tina's hands he added, "Come and see."

Tina smiled in delight for a moment before the smile was replaced with a frown. "You shouldn't have made a decision like that without me. I am an equal part of this household, Blaine. I have a right to participate in the decision – the most important acquisition we'll ever – "

"I wanted it to be a surprise," he said, still grinning and leading her toward the elevator.

A shadow crossed Tina's face and she said accusingly, "You made bounty money today."

Blaine said, "Yes, I retired three andys." He entered the elevator and held the door open for her with his hand until she followed. "I had to buy the goat," he said. "I couldn't wait for you – I'm sorry. Something went really wrong today – well a lot of things went wrong. And there are more of them out there, but I don't think I could keep going after the rest of them without getting an animal." The elevator had reached the roof. He led Tina into the evening darkness, to the cage. Switching on the spotlights he pointed to the goat, silently, and waited for her reaction.

"Oh my God," Tina said softly. She walked to the cage, peered in; then she circled around it, viewing the goat from every angle. "It's so beautiful. Is it really real?"

"Absolutely real," he said.

"What kind of goat is it – or she – you said she, right?" Tina asked, awestruck at the sight of the goat, blinking at her, rectangular pupils making it look almost cross-eyed.

"She's a black Nubian goat. And yes, she's a female. Maybe later on we can mate her. And we'll get milk and can make cheese."

"Can we let her out? Put her where the sheep is?"

"She ought to be tethered," he said. "For a few days at least." He looked over at the small rooftop pasture where the false sheep grazed. "So I guess you managed to call the false animal repair shop, since the sheep looks fine now. It's a shame we spent the money, though. Now that we have the goat, we don't have to keep up appearances with the sheep. We can tell everyone it was fake and get rid of it."

"No," Tina barked, sharp and loud enough that Finn, grooming and currying his horse on the other side of the roof, looked up and waved.

"Hey, guys! That goat is awesome," Finn called to them. "Congrats. Let me know if you decide to have kids. I might trade you my colt for a couple of kids. I heard somewhere that goats are great companions for horses."

"Thanks," Blaine called back loudly, with a wave. He turned back to Tina and whispered harshly, "What do you have against getting rid of the sheep?"

"I grew up with Groucho, remember. He was a gift from my parents. And yes, I know that _this _Groucho is fake, but I still feel attached to him." Tina stuttered through this explanation, eyes shifting between the sheep, the goat, Finn, and the elevator – never quite landing on Blaine's.

"Oh," said Blaine, the building desire for an argument draining out of him at the mention of Tina's parents – now on Mars and inaccessible except for the very occasional, very expensive satellite call. He knew she missed them. "I guess I can see why you would want to keep it around, then. But do you think you could do more to take care of it? It just depresses me to have to tend to that thing all the time as if it were alive, especially now that we have a real goat."

"Yes," Tina said almost too quickly. "Absolutely. I'll be one hundred percent in charge of Groucho's care from now on." She smiled broadly and looked past Blaine's shoulder, as if remembering something. "In fact, the guy from the New Directions Animal Hospital said that they would guarantee their repair by coming to check on him periodically."

"We can't afford – "

"Don't worry, they're not charging anything extra for it," Tina said, twirling a lock of her hair around one finger and raising up on her toes as if she were about to dance.

"Why would they – "

"Blaine, I just realized something!" Tina exclaimed, spinning toward the elevator and stabbing at the button. "We're so happy about the goat. We should right now to the empathy box and share our joy."

"Oh, I guess," Blaine said without much enthusiasm.

"Yes, Blaine, we have to," Tina insisted, ushering him into the elevator. "We'll go down and give thanks to Mercer, share our joy through fusion, and you can see if we have a rope to tether the goat. We can come back up in a few minutes and name her. She needs a name. You will let me name her, won't you? That's the least you can do after buying her without me," Tina babbled, keeping up a steady stream of chatter as the elevator began its descent.

Something warned him. Something made him say, "Wait, Tina. Let's not go back to our apartment yet. Let's go back to the goat. We can just sit and look at her and maybe feed her something. They gave me a bag of oats to start us out. And we can read the manual on goat maintenance, too." The elevator, however, had already opened and Tina was dragging him by the hand back to their apartment door.

"It would be immoral not to fuse with Mercer in gratitude," Tina said. "I had hold of the handles of the box earlier today. I had to try it to ease my depression so I could make the phone call to the animal hospital. And it helped a little – not as much as – " Tina cut off the end of her sentence abruptly, paused for a moment, then continued, "Not as much as having a brand new goat, certainly. Anyhow, I got hit by a rock, here." She held up her wrist; on it he made out a small dark bruise. "And I remember thinking how much better we are, how much better off, when we're with Mercer – and with all the other people out there grasping the handles at the same time. We're better off, in spite of the pain. Physically in pain; but spiritually together. I felt everyone else, all over the world, all who had fused at the same time." She opened the apartment door and gestured him in. "Come on, Blaine. This'll be just for a moment. You hardly ever undergo fusion. I want you to transmit the mood you're in now to everyone else. You owe it to them. It would be immoral to keep it for ourselves.

She was, of course, right.

In their living room, at the empathy box, Tina swiftly snapped the switch, her face animated with growing gladness; it lit her up like a rising new crescent of moon. "I want everyone to know," she told him. "Once that happened to me; I fused and picked up someone who had just acquired an animal. I also once picked up someone who had just fallen in love. It was beautiful. And then one day – " her features momentarily darkened; the pleasure fled. "One day I found myself receiving from someone whose animal had died. But others of us shared our different joys with them and that cheered the person up. We might even reach a potential suicide. What we have, what we're feeling, might – "

"They'll have our joy," Blaine said, "but we'll lose. We'll exchange what we feel for what they feel. Our joy will be lost."

The screen of the empathy box now showed rushing streams of bright formless color. Taking a breath, Tina grasped the two handles tightly. "We won't really lose what we feel. Not if we keep it clearly in mind." She looked at him meaningfully. You never really have gotten the hang of fusion, have you, Blaine?"

"I guess not," he said.

"It's like love," Tina said, her face brightened again with another radiant smile. "You can love one person and then have someone else enter your life and love them too, and the new love doesn't take away from the old love, the love just expands to both people."

Blaine looked into Tina's brown eyes. "Yeah," he said at last. "I think I understand." Another pair of eyes, blue and cool as ice, invaded his mind with a flash and he blinked, shaking his head a little, trying to erase the image.

He began to sense, for the first time, the value that people like Tina obtained from Mercerism. Possibly his experience with the bounty hunter Sebastian Smythe had altered some minute synapsis in him, had closed on neurological switch and opened another. And this perhaps had started a chain reaction. "Tina," he said urgently, drawing her away from the empathy box. "Listen. I really need to talk about what happened to me today." He led her over to the couch, sat her down facing him. "I met another bounty hunter," he said. "One I never saw before. A predatory one who seemed to like to destroy them. For the first time, after being with him, I looked at them differently. I mean, in my own way I had been viewing them as he did."

"Can't this wait?" Tina asked, glancing at the empathy box.

Blaine said, "I took a test, answered some questions, and verified it. I've begun to empathize with androids, and look what that means. You said it this morning yourself, 'Those poor andys.' So you know what I'm talking about. That's why I bought the goat. I never felt like that before. Maybe it could be a depression, like you get. I can understand now how you suffer when you're depressed. I always thought that you liked it and I thought you could have snapped yourself out any time, if not alone then with the help of the mood organ. But when you get that depressed you don't care. Apathy, because you've lost a sense of worth. It doesn't matter whether you feel better because if you have no worth – "

"What about your job?" Her tone jabbed at him. He blinked. "Your _job_," Tina repeated. "What are the monthly payments on the goat?" She held out her hand. Reflexively he fished the contract which he had signed out of a pocket and passed it to her. "That much," she said in a thin voice. "The interest; good God, the interest alone. And you did this because you were depressed. Not as a surprise for me, as you originally said." She handed the contract back to him. "Well, it doesn't matter. I'm still glad you got the goat. I love the goat. And at least they're not charging us for the continued maintenance on the sheep. But the goat – it's such an economic burden." She looked gray.

Blaine said, "I can get switched to some other desk. The department does ten or eleven separate jobs. Animal theft – I could transfer to that."

"But the bounty money. We need it or they'll repossess the goat!"

"I'll get the contract extended from thirty-six months to forty-eight." He whipped out a ball-point pen, scribbled rapidly on the back of the contract. "That way it'll be fifty-two fifty less a month."

"I still don't think we can afford it," she said, her breath coming out in panicked pants.

"I don't know," Blaine sighed. "Maybe we should just emigrate to Mars. You could set up a new obstetrics practice and I would find something to do."

"No," Tina said firmly. "Absolutely not."

"But you're the one who always says we should emigrate," Blaine practically yelled in frustration. "I thought the only thing holding us back was my stupid, stubborn obsession with my job. What's changed?"

Tina stares at him, mouth open, as if caught. After a moment, she snaps her mouth shut and says in a clipped, robotic tone, "The goat, of course. We can't take the goat with us if we emigrate."

"Right," Blaine sighed. "I almost forgot about that."

"Please don't ruin this," Tina said. "I'm still happy about having the goat, in spite of all of this. Can we just go ahead and undergo fusion as we planned so we can get back up there and give her a name?"

Blaine's phone, in the pocket of his jacket slung over one of the kitchen chairs, began to ring. Making no move to retrieve it, he said, "If we hadn't come back down here, if we'd stayed up on the roof, with the goat, I wouldn't even know the phone was ringing right now."

Walking into the kitchen and plucking his phone from the jacket pocket, Tina said, "Why are you afraid? They're not repossessing the goat, not yet." She started to swipe her thumb across the screen.

"It's the department," he said. "Say I'm not here."

"Hello," Tina said, holding the phone up to her face as she looked at the other face on the screen

Three more andys, Blaine thought to himself, that I should have followed up on today, instead of coming home. Tina walked toward him, holding the phone in front of her face and talking. "Yes, he's here," she said. Blaine lifted his hands in protest, a crinkled nose and raised brow insufficient to convey his indignation at Tina's blatant disregard of his wishes. "We bought a goat," Tina continued, blandly noting Blaine's disapproval and looking away. "Come over and see it, Mr. Puckerman." A pause as she listened and then she held the phone to Blaine. "He wants to talk with you," she said. Going over to the empathy box she quickly seated herself and once ore gripped the twin handles. She became involved almost at once. Blaine stood holding the phone, conscious of her mental departure. Conscious of his own aloneness.

"Hey there, Jake," Blaine said wearily.

"We have a tail on two of the remaining androids," Jake Puckerman said. He was calling from his office, Blaine saw the familiar desk, littered with documents and stacked file folders. "Obviously they've become alerted – they've left the address Shannon gave you and now they can be found at – hold on." Jake groped about on his desk for a moment before locating the paper he wanted.

Automatically Blaine searched for a pen. He held the goat-payment contract on his knee and prepared to write.

"Conapt Building 3967-C," Jake said. "We suspect that all three of them are there. The two we tailed got a phone call that originated from that side of town before the traveled to the address I just gave you. Get over there as soon as you can. We have to assume they know about the ones you picked off, Azimio Adams, Rachel Berry, and Cassandra July. That's why they've taken unlawful flight."

"Unlawful," Blaine repeated. To save their lives.

"Tina says you bought a goat," Jake said. "Just today? After you left work?"

"On my way home."

"I'll come and look at your goat after you retire the remaining androids. By the way – I talked to Shannon just now. I told her the trouble they gave you. She says congratulation and be more careful. But you know, in her more colorful, Shannon Beiste way." Blaine smiles at the reminder of his co-worker's odd colloquialisms as Jake continues. "She says the Nexus-6 types are smarter than she thought. In fact, she couldn't believe you got three in one day."

"Three is enough," Blaine said. "I can't do anything more right now. I have to rest."

"By tomorrow they'll be gone," Puckerman said. "Out of your jurisdiction, anyway."

"Not that soon. They'll still be around tomorrow."

Jake said firmly, "You get over there tonight. Before they get dug in. They won't expect you to move in so fast."

"Sure they will," Blaine said. "They'll be waiting for me."

"Got the shakes? Because of what Adams did to – "

"I haven't got the shakes," Blaine said.

"Then what's wrong?"

"Okay," Blaine said. "I'll get over there." He started to end the call

"Let me know as soon as you get the results," Jake said seriously. "I'll be here in my office."

"Yeah, okay." Blaine ended the call and stared at the black screen.

After a few moments, Blaine turned his attention toward his wife. Tina crouched at the black empathy box, her face rapt. He stood beside her for a time, his hand resting on her shoulder. He felt it rise and fall with her breath, the life in her, the activity. Tina didn't notice him. The experience of fusion had, as always, become complete.

On the screen the wooded path stretched out before them and all at ounce a rock sailed past. Bending, he gently removed Tina's fingers from the handles and took her place. It was the first time he had used the empathy box in weeks. An impulse. He hadn't planned it. All at once it happened.

Blaine took an experimental step forward in his mind and his body moved forward on the path, the screen and his living room melting away, his footsteps crunching the stones on the wooded path. He strained to hear the others, feel their joys and sorrows, hear their thoughts. But he had barely taken a few steps when a rock whizzed at him. He ducked and the rock struck him on the ear. At once he let go of the handles and again he stood in his own living room, beside Tina and the empathy box. His head ached wildly from the blow. Reaching, he found fresh blood collecting, spilling in huge bright drops down the side of his face.

Tina, with a handerchief, patted his ear. "I guess I'm glad you pried me loose. I really can't stand it, being hit. Thanks for taking the rock in my place. Did you feel it? The connection with the thousands of others from around the world?"

"I'm going," Blaine said flatly.

"The job?"

"Three jobs." He took the handkerchief from her and went to the hall door, still dizzy and, now, feeling nausea.

"Good luck," Tina said, giving him a weak smile.

"I didn't get anything form holding onto those handles," Blaine said. "It's just trudging up a rocky path and getting hit by stones."

She just stared at him.

"I'll see you later," he said, stepping out into the hall and shutting the door. Conapt 3967-C, he reflected, reading it off the back of the contract. That's out in the suburbs. It's mostly abandoned, there. A good place to hide. Except for the lights at night. That's what I'll be going by, he thought. The lights. Androids are phototropic, like the death's head moth. And then after this, he thought, there won't be any more. I'll do something else, earn my living another way. These three are the last. I have to just get this over with, like Puckerman wants. But, he thought, I don't think I can. Two, or maybe even three, andys together – this isn't a moral question, it's a practical question.

I probably _can't _retire them, he realized. Even if I try; I'm too tired and too much has happened today.

But I know where I can get help, offered earlier but declined.

He reached the roof and a moment later sat in the darkness of his hovercar, dialing.

"Sylvester-Hummel Association," the receptionist answered.

"Kurt Hummel," he said.

"Pardon, sir?"

Blaine grated, "Get me Kurt Hummel."

"Is Mr. Hummel expecting – "

"I'm sure he is," he said. He waited.

Ten minutes later, Kurt's face appeared, skin smooth and pale as porcelain, blue eyes tinged with flecks of yellow, lips curled into that mysterious closed-lipped smile. "Why hello, Mr. Anderson," he purred.

Blaine stared, open-mouthed for a moment. Though thoughts of this very face and these very eyes and this very look had invaded his mind all day, he still was startled to actually see Kurt again. His memory couldn't capture his full beauty. God, was he a beautiful creature.

Kurt waited patiently, head cocked just slightly to the side, attentive as Blaine collected himself and began to stammer. "Are y-you busy right now or c-can I talk to you?" He swallowed audibly and added in a near whisper, "Are you alone?" It did not seem like today. A generation had risen and declined since he talked to him last. And all the weight, all the weariness of it, had recapitulated itself in his body; he felt the physical burden.

"Why Mr. Anderson," Kurt said, his words heavy with innuendo, "are you finally trying to get me alone? Whatever will you do with me if I am?"

"I'm serious," Blaine said, his voice low and harsh. "I want to know if your offer still stands. And if you're free to talk about this openly."

"I'm alone," Kurt said matter-of-factly. "And yes, my offer still stands. I want my revenge on Sue Sylvester. But I'm surprised to hear from you after your stubborn insistence to do everything by yourself."

Blaine said, "Did you really think I wouldn't call you?"

"I told you one of the Nexus-6s would get you before you got it. And I wasn't kidding," Kurt said soberly. "I'm frankly surprised you're still standing."

"You were wrong."

"But you are calling," Kurt said with a sly smile. "So I take it that you want me to come to San Francisco."

"Tonight," Blaine said.

"Oh," Kurt said airily, eyes dancing coyly away before meeting his again, "it's so late. I'll come tomorrow. It's an hour trip, after all."

"I have been told I have to get them tonight." Blaine paused and then said, "Out of the original eight, three are left."

"You sound like you've had just an awful time." Kurt's voice is soothing, his expression playful.

"I thought you wanted to help me. If you don't fly down here tonight," Blaine urged, "I'll go after them alone and I won't be able to retire them. I just bought a goat," he added. "With the bounty money from the three I did get."

"You humans." Kurt laughed. "Goats smell terrible."

"Only male goats. I read it in the book of instructions that came with it."

Kurt's laugh melded into a crooked, dangerous smile. "Good thing that's not the case with male humans. I can guarantee you I smell very, very good."

Blaine stared at Kurt's image on the screen, blinking slowly and trying to focus.

"You really are tired," Kurt said, dropping his flirty smile and wrinkling his brow in concern. "You look dazed. Are you sure you know what you're doing, trying for three more Nexus-6s the same day? No one has ever retired six andys in one day."

"Franklin Powers," Blaine said automatically. "About a year ago, in Chicago. He retired seven."

"The obsolete McMillan Y-4 variety," Kurt said. "This is something else." He pondered. "Blaine, I can't do it. I haven't even had dinner."

"I need you," Blaine said, voice almost cracking. Otherwise I'm going to die, he said to himself. I know it and I think you know it, too. And I'm wasting my time appealing to you, he reflected. An android can't be appealed to, even if that aloofness is part of his intoxicating cool mystery. And yet, Kurt seemed to genuinely feel. He had seemed genuinely sorrowful about the memories that had been snatched from him in a moment this morning. There was a light in his eyes when he talked about his father – who of course is just someone else's memory of a father. But perhaps that was enough. Perhaps he could convince Kurt to –

Kurt said, "I'm sorry, Blaine, but I can't do it tonight. It'll have to be tomorrow."

"You want me to die," Blaine spit out bitterly.

"What?"

"Because I tripped you up on the Voigt-Kampff test."

"Do you think that?" Wide-eyed, he said, "_Really?"_

"It was my test that shattered your world today. My test that stole your memories away, stole your humanity away, snatched your father from you – "

"Blaine, stop," Kurt commanded, firm and loud. "Wanting you to die because you administered a test that is _part of your job _doesn't make any sense. That would be like shooting the messenger. Come on, give me some credit for being rational. After all, I am an android. I'm driven by logical, analytical thought – not by feelings. I'm well aware that it is Sue Sylvester, not Blaine Anderson, who laced my brain with those memories and then stripped them away."

"Then why won't you help me tonight?"

Kurt sighed. "I can tell that you don't want to do this job tonight – maybe not at all. Are you sure you want me to make it possible for you to retire the three remaining androids?" After a pause he asked, in a low, dark voice that sent a shiver of anticipation down Blaine's spine, "Or perhaps you want me to persuade you not to try?"

"Come down here," Blaine heard himself blurt out before he even formed a thought. "Come here now and we'll do something else."

"That could be promising," Kurt said silkily, his voice a soft and sensual caress. "What do you have in mind?"

"I want to try something," Blaine said hoarsely. "Something I heard today about situations involving humans and androids. Come down here tonight and I'll give up on the remaining andys. We'll do something else."

Kurt eyed him, arched a brow and smiled. "Okay, I'll fly down. Where should I meet you?"

"At the St. Francis. It's the only halfway decent hotel still in operation in the Bay area."

"Why Mr. Anderson," Kurt said teasingly, "a hotel – how scandalous. Whatever will you do until I get there?"

"I just want to talk – to get to know you. I'm not – " Blaine hesitated. "I'm not – the way you think I am. I'll wait for you." He ended the call and sat for a time, breathing heavily and willing the faint hint of arousal away. At last the cold of the car roused him. He switched on the ignition key and a moment later headed in the direction of downtown San Francisco. And the St. Francis Hotel.


	14. The Arrival

Brittany soared across the late-afternoon sky on her way home from work, singing and dancing a bit behind the wheel, unable to contain her excitement. On the passenger seat beside her was a small, sleek phone and a bag of groceries – delicacies from the black market grocery store. Artie had given her some cash as well as the phone. He also said he would ask for her specifically the next time he called for a repair job.

She ignored the rubbish-littered, lifeless roof and hurried down the stairs, one more flight than usual. She knocked on briskly on Carson's door.

"Who's there?" His voice was muffled by the door.

"This is Brittany S. Pierce speaking," she said, adopting the new authority she had acquired through first the video call at work and then through earning the phone and other delicacies. "I have a few desirable items here and I think we can put together a more than reasonable dinner."

The door, to a limited extent, opened. Carson, no lights on in the room behind him, peered out into the dim hall. "You sound different," he said. "You might even pass for mature."

"I had a few routine matters to deal with during business hours today," Brittany said in a deep and pompous tone. "The usual. If you could let me in – "

"You'd talk about them," he said dryly. However, he held the door open wide enough for her to enter. And then, seeing what she carried, he exclaimed, his face igniting with elfin, exuberant glee. He snatched the phone from the top of the grocery bag and began furiously pressing the buttons. "Does this work?" he practically shouted.

"Yes, I can show you – " Brittany started, but Carson had already brought the phone to life and was dialing. He turned his back to her and started to walk further into the dark apartment.

Brittany hurried about the room, switching on lights and unpacking the food – peaches, cheese, bean curd – all authentic. All rarities.

Carson kept his voice to a murmur, but it sounded like he was giving directions to the building. "Yes, come as soon as you can," he said. "And be _careful. _Make sure no one is following you."

After ending the call, Carson rushed toward Brittany, lips upturned in a pleased smile, holding the phone triumphantly in a hand above his head. She opened her arms, smiling, expecting him to collide into her with a forceful hug at any moment. But just before he reached her he stopped jerkily, and stepped back to widen the distance between them. "Ahem. Thank you, Brittany," he said, handing the phone over to her.

"Your friends are coming?"

"Yes, they should be here soon," he said. "It turns out they were hiding out just a few towns over."

"But why do they have to be careful? What makes you think someone would follow them?" she asked, furrowing her brow.

"Because the bounty hunters have had time to get to work." He wandered toward the window, gazed out at the blackness and the few lights here and there. "Those are two of my friends that I just spoke with, but I haven't heard from some of the others in weeks. Some of them could be dead."

"What's a bounty hunter?"

"That's right," he sighed. "You people aren't supposed to know. A bounty hunter is a professional murderer who's given a list of those he's supposed to kill. He's paid a sum – a thousand dollars is the going rate, I understand – for each he gets. Usually he has a contract with a city so he draws a salary as well. But they keep that low so he'll have incentive."

"Are you sure?" Brittany asked. "I think you must be mistaken. It's not in accord with present-day Mercerian ethics. All life is one, no islands are people – as Shakespeare said in olden times."

Carson rolled his eyes and said very loudly and slowly, "John Donne is the one who it and what he said was 'no man is an island'". Brittany nodded happily in agreement. "And yes, I'm sure."

"How do you know?"

"Because I'm – " he paused for a moment as if thinking. "I'm a journalist. An investigative reporter. It's my job to find out about these things."

"And now they're after _you? _You and your friends? They're going to come here and kill _you_?" She understood now, why Carson acted in so secretive a manner. "Can't you call the police?"

"No," Carson said flatly.

"Why not?"

"They're in on it, too. The police are the ones that hire bounty hunters in the first place."

Brittany thought it must be a delusion. Carson must be psychotic. With delusions of persecution. Maybe from brain damage from the dust. Maybe he's really a special too, like her. "I'll protect you," she said solemnly.

Carson choked out a pained laugh. "With what?"

"I'll get a license to carry a laser beam. It's easy to get, out here where there's hardly anybody. The police don't patrol out here. You're expected to watch out for yourself."

"That's very nice of you, Brittany," he says, in a tone that one would use with a small child. "But I really don't think it's going to make any difference. Let's just wait for my friends to get here and they can help me figure out what to do next."

"Okay," she said, a bit defeated. She turned and started searching fruitlessly through the long disused kitchen for suitable cookware. Carson held himself stiffly, back to her, staring vigilantly out the window.

She walked over to him and said gently and earnestly, "It won't make them get here any faster. Seriously. I've tried that before when I was waiting for someone and it really doesn't work."

He huffed out an exasperated breath, but said nothing.

Brittany hovered close to him for a few long moments, shuffling forward ever so slowly, as if being careful not to spook him. She ran two fingers up and down his arm, leaning forward until her breasts pressed into his back and her breath tickled his ear. "You did say you would come stay with me if I got you the phone." She pressed closer behind him and wrapped her other arm around his waist, still walking her fingers up and down his arm. "And I did." She pressed a small kiss to his ear as he stood stiff and silent in her arms. "And I don't think I'll be able to cook dinner here. I can't find all the pans I need."

He peeled her arm off of him, stepping forward and turning to face her. "Okay. We should make dinner. I'm sure they'll want to eat when they get here."

They hastily packed up the food into the bag and headed up the stairs.

"What is that monstrosity?" Carson asked as soon as Brittany flicked on the lights in her apartment.

"This is Lord Tubbington, my cat." Brittany danced over to the giant animal and scratched behind his ears. "Lord Tubbington, this is my new friend Carson." The three foot tall, rotund cat blinked his eyes lazily and turned his back, as if indicating that Carson was hardly worth the effort of being civil.

"Was that some kind of experiment from your place of employment? I mean, I know people can be pretty crazy but I thought the imitation animals were supposed to fool people by looking like the real thing. I mean, nobody wants something like _that _do they?" Carson said incredulously.

"Hey, don't say things like that in front of him. Lord Tubbington can be very sensitive," Brittany admonished.

"Just keep that thing away from me," Carson muttered. "And people think androids are creepy."

"Have you ever seen an android?" Brittany asked curiously. "I thought androids were only on Mars. Though Puck was saying something about androids on Earth today – and a big police cover-up about it. Oh – is that what your reporting is about?"

"Yes," Carson said. "I've seen androids. On Mars."

"You came here from Mars?" Brittany asked, bouncing up and down on her toes with excitement, as though Carson were a genuine celebrity. "Tell me all about it!"

"We should get dinner ready."

"I can start cooking while you talk," Brittany said, moving about the kitchen to gather pots and pans.

"We lived on Mars – my friends and I. That's how I know about androids."

"And the only people on Earth that you know," Brittany said, "are your fellow ex-emigrants."

"Yes. We knew each other before the trip. A settlement near New New York. Dave and Santana ran a drugstore. He was a pharmacist and she handled the beauty aids, the creams and ointments. On Mars they use a lot of skin conditioners. And I – "

"You were a journalist," Brittany said.

Carson looked startled for a moment, but soon recovered. "Yes, right. A journalist. I got medications from their pharmacy – that's how I met them. I needed them to get through life there on Mars. It's a lonely place. Much worse than this," he said, waving at the apartment and vaguely at the window, encompassing the whole town with his gesture.

"Don't the androids keep you company? I heard a commercial on – " She banged a pan on the stove, stirred the other pot with a wooden spoon, turning the heat down. "I heard that the androids helped."

"The androids," he said, "are lonely, too." Absently, he took a sip of wine that Brittany had poured out for him.

"Do you like the wine?" she asked eagerly.

"It's fine," he said absently.

"It's the only bottle of wine I've seen in three years."

"We came back," Carson continued, "because nobody should have to live there. It's just so boring. And no one is interested in intelligent writing there. I took the painkillers Dave concocted at the drug store and then Santana got me interested in pre-colonial fiction."

"You mean old books?"

"Stories written before space travel but about space travel," he explained patiently.

"How could there have been stories about space travel before – "

"The writers," Carson said, "made it up."

"Based on what?"

"On imagination. A lot of times they turned out wrong. For example they wrote about Venus being a jungle paradise with huge monsters and women in glistening breast plates. A lot of it is pretty misogynistic, come to think of it," he muttered, staring into the distance. "But it's still pretty exciting. To read about cities and huge industrial enterprises, and really successful colonization. Canals."

"Canals?" Dimly, she remembered hearing about that. In the olden days they had believed in canals on Mars.

"Crisscrossing the planet," Carson said. "And beings from other stars. With infinite wisdom," he sighed longingly. "And stories about Earth, set in our time and even later. Where there's no radioactive dust."

"I would think it would make you feel worse," Brittany said.

"It doesn't," Carson said curtly.

"Did you bring any of those stories with you?" It occurred to her that she ought to try reading some.

"It's worthless here because here on Earth the craze never caught on. Anyhow, there's plenty of it here. In the libraries. That's where we get all of ours – stolen from libraries here on Earth and shot by autorocket to Mars. You're out at night bumbling across the open space and all of a sudden you see a flare, and there's a rocket, cracked open, with old pre-colonial fiction magazines spilling out everywhere. A fortune. But of course you read them before you sell them."

A knock sounded on the door.

Carson froze and stared, wild-eyed, at Brittany. Ashen, he whispered, "I can't go. Don't make any noise, just sit." He strained, listening. "Did you lock the door?" Brittany nodded and Carson's eyes, wild and powerful, fixed themselves beseechingly on her, as if praying to her to make it true.

A far off voice from the hall called, "Carson, are you in there? You didn't tell us which apartment you would be in, but we saw the lights from outside and thought this might be the right one. Come on, it's us. Open up."

Carson mimed holding a pen and scribbling a note. Brittany rose and went into the bedroom, reappearing with a pen and scrap of paper. She handed it to Carson and he scratched out a hasty message.

YOU GO TO THE DOOR.

Brittany, nervously, took the pen from him and wrote:

AND SAY WHAT?

With anger, Carson scratched out:

SEE IF IT'S REALLY THEM.

Getting up, she walked glumly to the living room. How would I know if it was them? she asked herself. She opened the door.

Two people stood in the hall. A tall, bulky man with short dark hair and pudgy cheeks shuffled his weight from foot to foot nervously, looking searchingly and uncomprehending into Brittany's face. Beside him was a woman with long, thick black hair, an hourglass figure, olive skin and supple lips. Brittany's eyes were drawn to the woman and she let her gaze drop, drinking in the short, tight blue dress and black leather boots with spike heels.

"Well, I thought I was looking for my friend Carson, but I stand corrected, beautiful," the woman said in a silky voice, eyeing Brittany up and down appreciatively.

"Shut up, Santana," grumbled the man beside her, who was looking searchingly past Brittany and into the room behind her. Suddenly, his eyes lit up and he called out, "Carson!"

"Dave!" Carson shouted. The man in the hallway pushed past Brittany roughly and she spun in the doorway in time to catch the two men in a tight hug, as the woman sauntered past her, brushing deliberately against Brittany as she pressed herself against the doorframe, eyes fluttering shut as she breathed in the scent of the woman's perfumed hair.


	15. Rendezvous

Blaine stretched out his legs, flexing his socked feet, sinking back into two pillows propped up against the headboard in the luxurious hotel room. He has pulled the information sheets on the three remaining androids out of the briefcase on the floor next to him and shuffled through them absently, struggling to focus.

He peered first at the tiny, fuzzy, 3-D color photo which he could barely make out. The woman, Santana Lopez, was attractive, but even with the poor quality photo he could see a wicked glint in her eye. Some mixture of playful and dangerous. The information on her was very limited, but she seemed to be associated with the man – David Karofsky – in some way. She helped him run a pharmacy on Mars, he read. Or at least, the androids had made use of that cover. It was much more likely that David was a laborer, forced to work in construction or in the fields, an android with a bulky, muscular build like that. And perhaps Santana was some sort of maid. Or a pleasure model. Or both. Either way, they both had aspirations for something better. Do androids dream? Blaine asked himself. Evidently; that's why they occasionally kill their masters and flee here. A better life, without servitude. Like Rachel Berry; singing show tunes to adoring fans instead of toiling across the face of a barren rock-strewn field.

David Karofsky, the information sheet informed him, has an aggressive air of authority. According to Shannon's notes, this android proposed the group escape from Mars. Before that he stole and experimented with various mind-fusing drugs, claiming when caught that he hoped to promote in androids a group experience similar to that of Mercerism, which he pointed out remains unavailable to androids.

Blaine sighed deeply. A rough, cold android, hoping to undergo an experience from which, due to a deliberately built-in defect, it remained excluded. But Blaine couldn't work up much concern for David Karofsky. He caught, from Shannon's jottings, a repellant quality hanging about this particular android. Karofsky had tried to force the fusion experience into existence for himself and his fellow androids. When that fell through, he had engineered the killing of nearly a dozen human beings, followed by the flight to Earth. And now he, and the others remaining from the group of escaped androids, were doomed. If Blaine himself didn't get them, someone else would. Time and tide, he thought. The cycle of life. Ending in this, the last twilight. Before the silence of death.

The door of the hotel room banged open. "What a flight," Kurt Hummel said breathlessly, draping himself against the doorframe. His eyes take in the plush carpeting, the polished wood furniture, the giant flat screen television mounted to the wall, the elegant chairs, and the slightly rumpled bed. But his eyes are roaming up and down Blaine, outstretched on the bed, when he says, "Hmm, nice."

Ignoring him, Blaine said, "The worst of the eight is still alive. The one who organized them." He held the sheet on Karofsky toward him and Kurt accepted it.

"You know where this one is?" he asked, after reading.

"I have an address. Out in the suburbs where it's virtually abandoned. Just a few specials live out that way."

Kurt held out his hand. "Let's see about the others."

"A woman and a man." He passed Kurt the sheets, one dealing with Santana Lopez, the other an

android calling itself Carson Philips.

Glancing at the final sheet Kurt said, "Oh — " He tossed the sheets down and moved

over to the window to look out at downtown San Francisco. "I think you're going to get thrown by the last one. Maybe not; maybe you don't care." His skin had turned an even paler shade and his voice shook, fingers trembling as he pressed them against the glass.

"Exactly what are you muttering about?" Blaine retrieved the sheets, studied them, wondering which part had upset Kurt.

With forced joviality that sent his voice up nearly an octave, Kurt said, "Let's talk about something else."

Blaine sensed the rapid flight of Kurt's hidden thoughts: the transitions showed on his frowning, tense face. "Tell me what's the matter," Blaine said.

Kurt said petulantly, "On the phone you told me if I flew down here tonight you'd give up on the remaining three andys. 'We'll do something else,' you said. But here we are — "

"Tell me what upset you," Blaine insisted, sitting up and putting his feet on the floor.

Facing him defiantly, Kurt said, "Tell me what were going to do instead of obsessing over those last three andys." He unbuttoned his coat, carried it to the closet over one arm, back straight and tall, leading a bit with his hips. This gave Blaine his first chance to have a good long look at him.

Kurt was wearing a snugly fitted button-down in a silky, rich green fabric. The shirt was tucked into tight black pants, narrow hips and waist accentuated by a studded belt. The outfit drew attention to his tall and slim form, shoulders and chest broad but narrowing into a slender waist. Kurt turned to fumble in the closet for a hanger, and Blaine's eyes were drawn immediately to the round, firm globes of his ass straining against the fabric. Blaine forced his gaze upwards as Kurt turned to face him once more, eyes lingering at the smooth expanse of skin exposed by several undone shirt buttons before dragging up over that slight cleft in his chin, the plump, pink lips, and those incredible eyes, more green than blue with the shirt's reflection. Overall the impression is very good, and Blaine cannot stop himself from swallowing audibly.

Seating himself uneasily on the bed with one folded leg tucked underneath him, Kurt smoothed absently at the spread; his expression inscrutable. Blaine turned toward him, sitting cross-legged and took hold of his hand. It felt cold, bony, slightly moist. "What upset you?"

"That last goddamn Nexus-6 type," Kurt said, enunciating with effort, "is the same type as I am." He stared down at the bedspread, found a thread, and began rolling it into a pellet. "I know there isn't a picture with that one, but didn't you notice the description? It's of me, too. He may wear his hair differently and dress less fabulously — he may even have used a little bronzer. But when you see him you'll know what I mean." He laughed sardonically. "It's a good thing the association admitted I'm an andy; otherwise you'd probably have gone mad when you caught sight of Carson Phillips. Or thought he was me."

"Why does that bother you so much?"

"Hell, I'll be along when you retire him."

"Maybe not. Maybe I won't find him."

Kurt huffed and said, "I know Nexus-6 psychology. That's why I'm here; that's why I can help you. They're all holed up together, the three of them, plotting their crucial, all-out, final defense." His lips twisted. "Fuck," he said quietly.

"Cheer up," Blaine said, patting Kurt's knee.

Kurt watched Blaine's hand as it lingered, rubbing slow circles into the fabric of his pants. "You know what I have? Toward this Carson android?"

"Empathy," Blaine said.

"Something like that. Identification; there goes I. Crap; maybe that's what'll happen. In the confusion you'll retire me, not him. And he can go back to Seattle and live my life. I never felt this way before. We are machines, stamped out like bottle caps. It' s an illusion that I — I — personally — really exist; I'm just representative of a type." He shuddered, his eyes suddenly moist.

Blaine grabbed for Kurt's hand again and searched his mind for words of comfort. "Ants don't feel like that," he said, "and they're physically identical."

"Ants," Kurt scoffed, pulling his hand back and shuffling out of Blaine's reach on the bed. "They don't feel period."

"Identical human twins. They don't — "

"But they identify with each other; I understand they have an empathic, special bond." He rose and began pacing the room, brows knitted darkly. "I guess it doesn't matter if you 'retire' me by mistake. If I die, I'll probably just be born again when the Sylvester-Hummel Association stamps out its next unit of my subtype." Pausing with his back to Blaine he murmured, "And I used to think I was unique. That I mattered."

"You do matter, Kurt," Blaine said, hollowly. It sounded false even to him. Kurt raked a hand through his hair. Suddenly, Blaine realized something. His voice sounded surprised, yet sincere, when he heard himself say, "You matter to me."

Kurt spun around and smiled weakly in Blaine's direction. "Thanks, I guess. Though I can't really fathom why you would say such a thing. You don't even know me. My father – or I guess I should call him Mr. Hummel – told me that I mattered and I used to believe it. Until I found out that all of my memories are lies."

"Most memories are lies," Blaine said. "I'm not kidding. I read about that. I have to keep up on psychology to be good at my job, after all." Kurt looked at him with wide, wary eyes as Blaine continued. "It's been well-documented that humans can strongly recall something and have memories about it, when it actually never happened. Like if your parents tell you again and again about your victory in a baseball game as a little kid, even if it didn't actually happen at all, you may develop vivid memories of that very thing." Blaine gestured broadly, warming to the topic. "Also, memories aren't like recording a video. Two people can be in the exact same situation and they will remember it very differently. Or you can change your memories just by talking about them or thinking about them a lot. Like say you got a bunch of gifts for your birthday when you turned fifteen, but you've told people again and again about that great new phone you got, it's likely that you won't remember the other gifts accurately or at all. Memory is such an important factor shaping who we are, but it's not as reliable as people like to think."

Kurt curled up on himself like a wilting leaf, gripping his elbow with one hand, arm folded across his stomach, and fixed Blaine with a doubtful gaze. Slowly he asked, "What does this have to do with me?"

Suddenly, convincing Kurt of his own identity as a person seemed like the most important task in the world. "Memories shape who we are – our personalities. So I may have certain genetics and you may have certain, um, manufacturing, and those things shape who we are to an extent. But we also are the experiences that happened to us, our memories. And you have memories, so you are unique."

"But I have someone else's memories," Kurt said bitterly.

"Not really," Blaine insisted. "You may have some memories implanted in you from Mr. Hummel's son, but you don't have his genetics, so those memories have affected you in a unique way. And you have made those memories your own. The things you remember that are important to you, as you talk about them and think about them – you are shaping those memories in a different way. I bet if you ever met the guy whose memories you have and talked with him about them, they wouldn't sound like the same memories to him."

"You really think so?" Kurt asked quietly, an invisible veil lifting from his eyes, a light of hope shining out of them.

"Absolutely," Blaine said emphatically. "They are your memories now. Plus, you've been around for at least a few years, right? So those implants – as altered by you – may be your earlier memories, but you have created countless more memories since then. And those are wholly yours."

"I've never really thought of it that way," Kurt said, blinking slowly. "Thank you?"

"It's nothing," Blaine said. "Now I said I wanted to get to know you and I meant it. So tell me about yourself."

"My life really isn't that exciting as a floor model and employee of the Sylvester-Hummel Association," Kurt said dejectedly.

"No," Blaine said firmly. "I want to know you. Tell me your memories, your dreams, your desires."

Kurt laughed. "That's quite a list." He draped himself into a plush chair, leaning back against one corner of it and crossing his legs delicately over the opposite arm rest.

"Okay, one thing at a time, then," said Blaine, crossing to the chair opposite Kurt and dropping into it, leaning forward, chin in his hands. "Tell me more about your father."

"He's not really my father," Kurt protested.

"He's the father you remember," said Blaine. "I know he's important to you. Tell me about him."

Kurt's shoulders drop and he releases a slow breath, gazing into the distance. "He and I were always so different. But it didn't matter that he didn't really get me. He always loved and respected me just the way I was. I think it's because my mother died when I was so young." Shifting his piercing eyes back to meet Blaine's gaze he added, "It kind of drew us together, you know?"

"How are you different?" Blaine asked.

"In so many ways," Kurt said with a wistful smile. "He loves sports, rock and roll, and fancy hovercars. He would fix up old hovercars in his spare time. He taught me how." Blaine tried to imagine this pristine creature bent over an engine, forearm straining as he loosened a bolt with a wrench. Feeling his cheeks heating up, Blaine looked down at the floor as Kurt continued. "My father is into the mechanics of things – how they work. The physical aspects of creating artificial humans."

"And you?" Blaine asked, daring to look back up. "What are you interested in?"

"Performance," Kurt said immediately. "Fashion. Theatrics. Music. It comes in handy when designing our products – how to make them act more human than human. But I really prefer being the one to perform. I just don't get much of a chance to do it." He sighed. "Work duties get in the way, you know. I don't get much of a say over what I want to do with my life."

"Yeah, me either."

"What do you mean?" Kurt asked. "Surely you have some control over what you do with your life. Doesn't hunting andys make you happy?"

"It used to," Blaine admitted. "I mean, it still does, I think. But I can relate to what you said. A lot of my work involves playing a part, making the potential android feel comfortable while I conduct my testing. Or acting a certain way to get the information I need when I'm trying to track someone down."

"Why, Mr. Anderson," Kurt said airily, the teasing quality back in his voice for the first time since he saw the information sheet on Carson Philips, "are you saying that we actually have something in common?" Kurt placed a hand over his heart in a dramatic fashion.

Blaine smiled. "Yeah, I guess so. I like performance, too."

They smiled at each other stupidly for a moment too long. Then Kurt's smile faded as he remembered something and he asked, in a serious tone, "If your job doesn't make you happy anymore, why don't you do something else?"

"It's not that simple," Blaine said. "There are only a few jobs I'm really qualified for, and none of them pay as well as this one. At least, when I'm lucky." He rubbed his face with his hands. "I have a wife to support. And I bought a black Nubian goat, mostly on credit. I have to retire those three andys. I need the money."

"I still can't believe you bought a goat," Kurt said, chuckling.

"The goat is beautiful," Blaine said with a smile. In a more serious tone he added, "But I don't think I can get those last three andys without your help." Blaine suddenly realized that he had developed an irrational fear of the last three androids, especially David Karofsky. His heart sped up, blood pounding in his ears. Thinking about those androids, plotting together about how to defeat him, made the fear grow until it snared him completely. "I can't go without you now," he said to Kurt. "I can't even leave here. Azimio Adams came after me. Cassandra July basically came after me, too."

"You think Karofsky is going to try to find you?" Kurt asked. He stood up and crossed the room to the closet, extricated his coat from the hanger, and tossed it at Blaine. Blaine startled hard, his arms clamping over the coast reflexively.

"Look in the pocket," he said. "I have a mechanism that our factory builds as an emergency measure for when they put a newly made andy through its routine inspection checks. It looks like an oyster."

"Is this it?" He held up a metallic sphere with a button-stem projecting.

"That cancels an android into catalepsy," Kurt said, settling back into his chair. "For a few seconds. Suspends its respiration; yours, too, but humans can function without respiring for a couple of minutes, but the vagus nerve of an andy — "

"I know." He straightened up. "The android autonomic nervous system isn't as flexible at cutting in and out as ours. But as you say, this wouldn't work for more than five or six seconds."

"Long enough," Kurt said, "to save your life. So, see — " He stood and stepped toward Blaine, closing both hands over Blaine's, pressing the metal of the device into his palm. "You hang onto that. If David Karofsky or any other android shows up, you just press the stem on that thing. And while David Karofsky is frozen stiff with no air supply to his blood and his brain cells deteriorating, you can kill him with your laser."

"You have a laser tube," Blaine said. "I felt it. In your coat pocket."

"A fake. Androids aren't permitted to carry lasers." Kurt released Blaine's hands and stood up straight. "Look at us, talking shop again. I thought you wanted us to get to know each other."

"Yes," said Blaine. "I do."

"All right, Mr. Anderson," Kurt said airily. "What else do you want to know?"

Blaine looked down at the oyster shell device in his hand and tucked it into his pocket. He looked up at Kurt and forced himself to smile, focusing again on the earlier thread of their conversation. "Where were we?"

"Performance," Kurt said, his voice low and guttural, an eyebrow raised like a challenge.

Blaine had to blink a few times to break the spell he seemed to be under, staring at Kurt's flawless skin. "Right. So, um, what would you rather be doing, if you had the choice? What type of performance?"

"I've always liked the idea of Broadway. Musicals, especially."

"Really?" Blaine asked, surprised. "You sing?"

"I sure do," Kurt said, staring into Blaine's eyes intently, voice dipping and raising, adding complex layers of innuendo to those three simple words. "Do you want me to sing for you, Blaine?"

Blaine jumped up from the chair, escaping the intensity of Kurt's gaze, breaking the spell once more. "Yes, that's a great idea. Let me grab my ipod from my briefcase. I can find some background music for you."

"You have the instrumental versions of show tunes on your ipod?" Kurt sounded amused.

Blaine ruffled through the briefcase, spinning around triumphantly with the silver rectangle in his hands. "Yes," he said, striding over to the television to plug the ipod into the sound system. "I have the karaoke versions of a lot of old standards. I like to sing, too."

"Let me see what you have," Kurt said, standing up and leaning into Blaine, reading the list of songs over his shoulder as Blaine scrolled through. "Play that one," Kurt said, when Le Jazz Hot was highlighted.

"You can sing that?" Blaine asked doubtfully.

"I have an incredible range."

And he was right about his range. Kurt sang song after song, some originally intended for female vocalists and others for a tenor. Blaine joined in on a few duets. By the time they reached the closing notes on the tenth or twelfth song, they each had two hands on the other's shoulders, laughing with delight, breathing in each other's huffed out breaths.

Blaine's breathing evened at last and he was still holding Kurt's shoulders, staring directly into those blue-green eyes as they searched his own intently, darting back and forth. A slow instrumental began to play through the speakers and Blaine stepped forward a fraction, grabbing Kurt's left hand in his right and pulling him close. "Dance with me," he said. Blaine stepped forward and Kurt stepped back, falling immediately into a follow position as they swayed and moved slowly about the room.

Blaine could barely concentrate on the dance steps as he became more and more aware of the warm flesh of Kurt's back beneath his hand. Blaine slowed his steps and pulled Kurt closer, breathing in the clean crisp scent of him, lips practically brushing his hair as he pressed their cheeks together. He slowed his steps until their feet remained stationary, and now they simply held onto each other, swaying slightly, in a gentle hug. Blaine ran his hands up and down Kurt's back and his heart pounded in his chest.

"Blaine?" Kurt said questioningly, and pulled back so they could face each other, Blaine still gripping him tight and preventing him from backing away. Their faces were so close their noses were practically touching. Kurt's eyes darted to Blaine's lips for just a moment and Blaine surged forward, pressing their lips together and squeezing Kurt's back hard, feeling the muscles ripple under his hands as Kurt shifted beneath them. Blaine worked insistent lips against Kurt's soft and pliant ones. Kurt made a small noise into Blaine's mouth and Blaine broke the kiss, stepping back and releasing him, panting as they stare at each other hungrily.

"Kurt," Blaine said slowly and carefully, "are you okay with this?"

"Blaine," Kurt said softly, his voice infused with longing, "of course I am. You're the first person to really see me – to want to get to know me. Instead of just projecting on me what you want to see." Blaine swallowed, trying not to wince at the implications of that painful admission. At how many others Kurt may have experienced who just wanted to use him. Kurt leaned forward and pressed their lips together softly, then pulled back just enough to breath against Blaine's lips. "I may be falling for you. If a came across a sofa covered with your hide I'd score very high on the Voigt-Kampff test."

Blaine grinned against Kurt's lips. "This is pretty unusual bedroom talk."

"We're pretty unusual bedfellows."

"I suppose you're right."

"Less talking, more kissing," Kurt insisted, dragging Blaine forward by the lapels of his jacket and tugging gently on his bottom lip with his teeth.

As soon as Blaine opened his mouth to him, their kissing became desperate and they were clawing at each other's clothes, stumbling toward the bed.

"I don't know what I'm doing," Blaine gasped out as Kurt pushed him backwards onto the bed. "I've never been with a man before."

"Don't worry about it," Kurt said between planting suckling kisses up and down Blaine's chest. "Just lay back and let me take the lead."

Blaine scraped the pads of his fingers up Kurt's scalp, writhing a bit under the attention of his warm, wet mouth. Oh god, Blaine thought; I've wound up where Sebastian Smythe said. Have sex with the android first, he remembered. Then kill it.

"I can't do it," Blaine blurted, grabbing Kurt's hair and forcing his head back.

"Don't stop me, Blaine," Kurt pleaded with wide eyes and pouted lips, "I want you."

"I – I want you, too, Kurt. Believe me. But I can't. Not because of you. Because of Carson Philips. What I have to do to him."

"We're not the same. Like you said, I'm a unique individual," Kurt said in a sultry tone, dancing a finger up and down Blaine's naked thigh. "I don't care about Carson Philips. Listen." Kurt pushed at Blaine's hand in his hair until Blaine released him. Kurt straddled Blaine, bracing himself by his arms on either side of Blaine's head. "I'll do anything you want, okay? I'll even retire Carson for you. Okay. Just please, don't stop this."

"Thank you," he said, gratitude rising up inside of him and constricting his throat. Two, he thought. I only have two to retire.

"Goddammit stop talking," Kurt moaned, falling onto him and grinding their taut bodies together, forcing Blaine's mouth open again with his tongue. And just like that they were frantic again, rocking and pressing and rolling and kissing. And suddenly Kurt was sucking on his own fingers and reaching behind himself while they kissed. And then Kurt was sinking down over him, swallowing him up as Blaine shouted out, one hand gripping Kurt's hip, the other wrapped around his shaft, Kurt whimpering desperately as they both convulsed and dissolved into bliss.


	16. Preparations

"Thank God you two are here," Carson said with palpable relief. "I mean, I'm glad you're alive of course. But even more than that, your arrival astronomically increases my chances of having an intelligent conversation at last."

"Can we talk?" Dave asked, indicating Brittany.

Carson muttered, "It's okay up to a point." To Brittany he carefully enunciated, "Excuse us."

He led Dave and Santana off to one side and whispered to them. The three of them returned to confront Brittany with beaming, over-bright smiles. Brittany felt uncomfortable and out of place.

"This is Ms. Brittany Pierce," Carson said. "She's taking care of me." The words came out tinged with an almost malicious sarcasm. Brittany blinked. "See?" he gestured toward the kitchen counter. "She managed to get her hands on a phone so I could let you know where I was. And she brought me some natural food. She even cooked us all dinner."

"Dinner," Santana echoed, and trotted lithely into the kitchen to see, her heels clicking against the floor. "I am starving. I can't wait to gets my eats on. Mmm, peaches," she said, immediately picking up a bowl and spoon. Smiling at Brittany she ate with brisk little animal bites. Her smile, different from Carson's, provided warmth and genuine interest. "I'm Santana Lopez, by the way. And the big hulking brooding mess over there is Dave Karofsky."

Going after her – she felt attracted to her – Brittany said, "You're from Mars."

"Yes, that place was a drag. We gave up and decided to give Earth another try." Her brown eyes sparkled at Brittany. "This building sucks. It's exhausting to even think about wading through all that abandoned trash and junk on the roof every day. Nobody else lives here, do they? We didn't see any other lights."

"I'm glad you left Mars," Brittany said solemnly. "If you didn't, I wouldn't have met you."

Santana smiled around the bite of peach in her mouth and swallowed slowly, eyes boring into Brittany's. It reminded Brittany of the way cheetahs look right before chasing down their prey. It made her shiver, but it stirred a pleasant feeling within her, too.

"You're sweet," Santana said and Brittany beamed.

"Yes," Carson said flatly. "Brittany is _special _isn't she?"

"She's sweet," Santana growled, voice laced with a dark tone. "And if you don't have anything nice to say, you can just shut your pie hole before I ends you."

Dave stepped between them. "Calm down. We need to stick together now. Especially now." He fixed first Santana and then Carson with a grim expression. "They got Azimio."

The joy Carson first exhibited when he saw his friends at once melted away. "Who else?"

"They got Cassandra July," Dave said. "They got Brody and Roz and then just a little earlier today they got Rachel." He delivered the news as if, perversely, it pleased him to be telling this. As if he derived pleasure from Carson's shock. "I didn't think they'd get Rachel. Remember I kept saying that during the trip?"

"Yeah," Santana said softly. "You agreed with her that she'd be the big star. Getting to sing on Broadway and getting to live her life in the spotlight. You thought she'd be the safest of all of us."

"But you were wrong," said Carson coldly. "So that leaves – "

"The three of us," Santana said with apprehensive urgency.

"That's why we're here." Dave Karofsky's voice boomed out with new unexpected warmth. The worse the situation the more he seemed to enjoy it. Brittany could not fathom him in the slightest.

"Oh God," Carson said, stricken.

"They had this investigator, this bounty hunter," Santana said, "named Shannon Beiste." Her lips dripped venom at the name. "I hear she looked like a beast, too. It's hardly fair being forced into a fight with someone like that. And Azimio almost got her."

"Almost got her," Dave echoed, his smile now immense.

Brittany glanced around at the three companions. All of them, she thought. They're all so strange. As if a peculiar and malign abstractness pervaded their mental processes. She searched through her limited mental files to find a word to describe it, but she couldn't quite put a finger on it.

"So she's in the hospital, this Beiste," Santana continued. "And evidently they gave his list to another bounty hunter, and Azimio almost got him, too. But it wound up with our boy dead. Then he went after Rachel. We know that because she managed to get hold of Cassandra and she sent out someone to capture the bounty hunter and take him to the Mission Street building. See, Rachel called us after Cassandra's agent picked up the bounty hunter. She was sure it would be okay. She was sure that Cassandra would kill him." Santana ran a hand through her hair nervously and added, "But something went wrong on Mission. We don't really know what happened. Probably never will."

Carson asked, "Does this bounty hunter have our names?"

"What do you think?" Santana practically spat at him. They stared at each other, breathing hard. Dave moved forward as if to step between them again, but Santana took a deep breath, dropped her tense shoulders and said softly, "Sorry, Carson. This whole thing just fills me with rage. He has our names, but I don't think he knows where we are. Dave and I aren't going back to the apartment we had downtown. We crammed as much stuff into the car as we could and figured we'd just move into this building now."

"I guess that's a good idea," Brittany said. "In horror movies the bad stuff always happens when the group splits up." She looked toward the window for a moment pensively. "I don't think I've seen a horror movie where the group sticks together, but it has to be better than when they split up and get killed, right?"

"You're brilliant," Santana says with a smile, reaching over to touch Brittany briefly on the nose. "And adorable, too. We should move in with you."

"Move in with a chickenhead?" Carson said and his nostrils flared. "No way. I am not going to live with a chickenhead."

"But you said before – if I could get you the phone – that you would…" Brittany stammered.

"I lied," Carson said cruelly. "I was using you to get the phone so I could call my friends. But I never had any interest in moving in with you. And I certainly wasn't going to sleep with you."

Santana's eyes widened, "A girl this hot offered to sleep with you and you said no? I thought Dave and I were the gays of the group."

"I'm not gay," said Carson forcefully. "She's – not my type."

"Look at her," Santana said, waving her hand up and down in front of Brittany's body. "She's everyone's type." Brittany ducked her head and blushed, remaining silent.

"Unlike you and most of the other Neanderthals the world seems to be made up of, I'm actually attracted to a person's intelligence rather than to their body. So no, a chickenhead is not exactly my type."

Santana scoffed, "I think you're foolish to be a snob at a time like this. Bounty hunters move fast. He may be over here before the night is over. There could even be a bonus for him if he gets it done by – "

"Fuck, Santana, keep your voice down. And dammit, close the door," Dave said, rushing to the front door of the apartment with long strides. He slammed it shut with one blow of his hand, then locked it. "I think we should all move in here for now. That way we can help each other. Stick together, like Brittany said. I've got some electronic components in my car, junk I ripped off the ship. I can use it to rig up an alarm system that that will warn us if anyone comes to the building. What do you think, Carson?"

Carson rubbed his jaw with one hand and sighed. Training his eyes on the ceiling he said, "It's obvious that the false identities didn't work out, even Cassandra's. Of course, Cassandra put her head in the noose like a total idiot by bringing the bounty hunter to the Mission Street building. That was a mistake. And Azimio, instead of staying as far away as possible from the hunter chose to approach him, probably thinking he's so smart or at least so big that he would be able to take the bounty hunter out. We won't do any of that. We'll stay put."

"I agree," said Santana. "I think," she sucked in her breath noisily, holding the attention of everyone else in the room, including Brittany. "I think that there's a reason why the three of us are still alive. I think if he had any clue as to where we are he'd have shown up here by now. The whole idea in bounty hunting is to work as fast as hell. That's where the profit comes."

"Not to mention that's where the 'staying alive' part of it comes, too," Carson said dryly.

"And if he waits," Santana continued, ignoring Carson, "we slip away, like we've done before. It must be that he has our names but no location. Poor Rachel, stuck in the Gold Coast Theater, right out in the open. No difficulty finding her."

"Well," Dave said stiltedly, "she wanted it that way. She believed she'd be safer as a public figure."

"I told her otherwise," Santana said. "I don't think she really believed she'd be safer. But she'd risk anything to be a star."

"Yeah," Carson agreed. "I told her that, too, but she didn't listen. I also told Azimio not to try to pass himself off as a W.P.O. man. And I told Cassandra that one of her own bounty hunters would get her, which is quite possibly exactly what happened."

"I think," Brittany interrupted, "you are right to stay here." Her voice broke with hope and tension. "I think it would be terrific, Santana – and all of you – if you l-l-lived with me. I'll stay home a couple of days from my job. I have a vacation coming. I'll stay home to make sure you're okay." And maybe I can visit Artie again. He was very inventive. He could probably design a weapon. Something imaginative, that would slay bounty hunters…whatever they were. She had an indistinct impression, glimpsed darkly, of something merciless that carried a printed list and a gun, that moved machine-like through the flat, bureaucratic job of killing. A thing without emotions, or even a face. A think that if killed got replaced immediately by another resembling it. And so on, until everyone real and alive had been shot.

Incredible, she thought, that the police can't do anything. I can't believe that. These people must have done something. Perhaps they emigrated back to Earth illegally. We're told – the TV tells us – to report any landing of a ship outside the approved pads. The police must be watching for this. But even so, no one got killed deliberately any more. It ran contrary to Mercerism.

"The chickenhead," Carson said to Santana, "likes you." His words startled Brittany out of her reverie and she realized she had been staring at Santana for all of that time. She looked away, embarrassed.

"Don't you dare call her that, Carson," Santana said. She gave Brittany a look of compassion and of interest. "Think of what she could call you."

Carson said nothing. His expression became enigmatic.

"I'll go start rigging up the alarm," Dave said. He started toward the door, striding with amazing speed for a man so heavy. In a blur he disappeared out the door, which banged back as he flung it open. Brittany then, had a momentary, strange hallucination. She saw briefly a frame of metal, a platform of pullies and circuits and batteries and turrets and gears – and then the solid shape of Dave Karofsky faded back into view. Brittany felt a giggle rise up inside her. She nervously choked it off. And felt bewildered.

Santana turned to Brittany and said, "I want you to know that we appreciate your help, Brittany. You're the first friend I think any of us have found here on Earth." She glided over and patted her on the arm, the pats slowly changing to gentle rubbing.

"Do you have any pre-colonial fiction I could read?" she asked Santana.

"Any what?" Santana glanced inquiringly at Carson.

"Those old magazines," Carson said. "No, Brittany. We didn't bring any back with us, for reasons I already explained."

"I'll g-g-go to a library tomorrow," Brittany said, pulling out plates and dishing up the dinner she had prepared. "And get us some to read, so we'll have something to do besides just waiting." She set the full plates around the table and gestured to her guests to sit as she grabbed forks and napkins for them.

"This is good," Carson said, his detached and remote tone not at all matching his words.

"What's the matter?" Brittany asked, sitting at the table and picking up her fork.

"Nothing," he said morosely.

"I know you're worried – " she began.

"It's a dream," Carson said. "Induced by drugs that Dave gave me." He exchanged a significant look with Santana across the table.

"P-pardon?" said Brittany.

"Do you really think that bounty hunters exist?" Santana asked.

"But you two and Dave said that they killed your friends."

"Dave Karofsky is just as crazy as we are," Carson said, gesturing toward himself and Santana. "Our trip was between a mental hospital on the East Coast and here. We're all schizophrenic, with defective emotional lives – flattening of affect, it's called."

"We have group hallucinations," Santana added.

Brittany looked from one to the other and said, full of relief, "I didn't think it was true."

"Why didn't you?" Carson swiveled to stare at her intensely. His scrutiny was so thorough that she felt herself flushing.

"B-because things like that don't happen. The g-government never kills anyone, for any crime. And Mercerism – "

"But you see," Carson said, "if you're not human, then it's all different." Santana sucked in a sharp breath and glared at Carson.

Brittany didn't understand Santana's sudden ire. She said, "That's not true. Even animals – even eels and gophers and snakes and spiders – are sacred."

Carson, still regarding her fixedly, said, "So it can't be, can it? As you say, even animals are protected by law. All life. Everything organic that wriggles or squirms or burrows or flies or swarms or lays eggs or – " He broke off, because Dave Karofsky had appeared, abruptly throwing the door of the apartment open and entering; a trail of wire rustling after him.

"Insects," he said, showing no embarrassment at overhearing them, "are especially sacrosanct." He gathered up the trailing wire, which led to a complex assembly. Smiling his discordant smile, he showed the assembly to Carson, Santana and Brittany. "This is the alarm. These wires go under the carpet; they're antennae. It picks up the presence of a – " He hesitated. "A mentational entity," he said obscurely, "which isn't one of us four."

"So it rings," Carson said, "and then what? He'll have a gun. We can't fall on him and bite him to death."

"This assembly," Dave continued, "has a Penfield unit built into it. When the alarm has been triggered it radiates a mood of panic to the – intruder. Unless he acts very fast, which he may. Enormous panic. I have the dial turned all the way up. No human being can remain in the vicinity more than a matter of seconds. That's the nature of panic. It leads to random circus-motions, purposeless flight, and muscle and neural spasms." He concluded, "Which will give us an opportunity to get him. Possibly. Depending on how good he is."

Brittany looks from face to face, wondering if she would sound stupid to ask what seems like such an obvious question. Finally, she said, "Won't the alarm affect us?"

"That's right," Santana said to Dave. "It'll affect Brittany. I don't like the idea of her running around in a panic and possibly getting hurt. She's just trying to help us."

"It's fine," Dave said dismissively and resumed the task of installation. "So they both go racing out of here panic-stricken. It won't do any permanent damage to her. And the bounty hunter won't kill her; she's not on their list. But it'll give us time to react."

"You can't do any better than that?" Santana asked.

"No," Dave answered. "I can't. But we should all figure out what our next move should be. How we can work together to incapacitate him."

"I can get us a weapon tomorrow," Brittany said. "From the guy who gave me the phone. I think – I'm pretty sure he had weapons, too."

"Are you sure that Brittany's presence here won't set off the alarm?" Carson said. "After all, she may be a chicken head, but she's still, you know."

"I've compensated for his cephalic emanations," Dave explained. "Their sum won't trip anything. It'll take an additional human. Person." Scowling, he glanced at Brittany, aware of what he had said.

"You're androids," Brittany said.

"Congratulations," said Carson dryly. "You got in on what – the fifth clue."

"Shut up, Carson," hissed Santana.

Brittany didn't care that they were androids. It made no difference to her. "I see why they want to kill you," she said. "Actually, you're not really alive." Everything made sense to her, now. The bounty hunter, the killing of their friends, the trip to Earth, all these precautions – even what Puck was saying at work earlier today.

"When I used the word 'human'," Dave said to Carson, "I really fucked up."

"It's okay, Dave," Brittany said. "It really doesn't matter to me. I mean, I'm a special. They don't treat me very well either. Like for instance, I can't emigrate." She found herself babbling. "You can't come here; I can't – " She calmed herself.

"I wondered how long it would be," Santana said to Brittany, putting an arm around her and pulling her close, "before you realized. We are different, aren't we?"

"That's what probably tripped up Cassandra and Azimio," Dave said. "They were so goddamn sure they could pass. Rachel, too."

"You're intellectual," Brittany said. She felt excited again at having understood. Excitement and pride. "You think abstractly, and you don't – " She gesticulated, her words tangling up with one another. As usual. "I wish I had an IQ like you have; then I could pass the test, I wouldn't be a chickenhead. I think you're all so very smart, so very much better than humans in so many ways. I could learn a lot from you."

Santana smiled and pulled Brittany closer.

After an interval Dave said, "I'll finish wiring up the alarm."

"She doesn't understand yet," Carson said in a sharp, brittle voice, "how we got off Mars. What we _did _to get here."

"You mean what we couldn't help doing," Dave grunted.

Santana said, "We don't have to worry about Brittany." She looked into Brittany's face and smiled. "They don't treat her very well either, as she said. And she's not interested in what we did on Mars, are you Brittany?" Brittany shook her head no. "See. She knows us and likes us and an emotional acceptance like that – it's everything to her. It's hard for us to grasp that, but it's true." To Brittany she said, "You could get a lot of money by turning us in. Do you realize that?"

In horror, Brittany gasped, "But they would kill you!"

Twisting, Santana said to Carson, "See, we can trust her."

"If she was an android," Carson said, "she'd turn us in about ten tomorrow morning. She'd take off for her job and that would be it."

"But Brittany wouldn't do that," Santana insisted. Turning to Brittany, she took her hands in her own and stared deeply into her eyes. "You're a credit to your race. You're amazing."

"I'm overwhelmed with admiration," Carson said flatly. "And we imagined this would be a friendless world, a planet of hostile faces, all turned against us." He barked out a laugh.

"I'm not at all worried," Santana said.

"You ought to be scared shitless," Dave said.

"Let's vote," Carson said. "Like we did on the ship, when we couldn't agree on something."

"Obviously, I think we should stay here with Brittany. I doubt we'll find any other human being who would help us. Brittany is – "

"Special," Carson said nastily, as if the very word were fouling his mouth.

"Fuck you, asshole," Santana shouted fiercely, spinning toward him with fists raised. "I will end you!"

"Quit it!" Dave yelled. In the silence, he said, "I vote we kill Brittany and hide somewhere else."

"Well I say we stay here," Santana said, stepping in front of Brittany protectively. "She's one of us, now." She turned looked at Carson with pleading eyes.

"Okay, fine," Carson said, annoyed. "Just stop staring at me like that. I vote we make our stand here."

"You're just caving to Santana, and she's obviously smitten with some ridiculous crush – " Dave said.

"No," Carson cut him off firmly. "I'm just being rational. I think Brittany's value to us outweighs the danger of her knowing about us. Obviously we can't live among humans without being discovered. That's what killed Azimio, Cassandra, Roz, Brody, and Rachel. That's what killed all of them."

"Maybe they did the same thing we're doing," Dave said. "Trusted a human being they thought was different. Special, as you said."

"Oh please," Santana said. "Can you really imagine Rachel Berry confiding in and trusting _anyone. _Or Cassandra or Roz, for that matter? No, that's ridiculous. They got themselves killed because they – " She gestured. "Walked around. Sang from a stage. We trust – I'll tell you what we trust that screws us over, Dave. It's our goddamn superior intelligence!" She glared at Dave, her chest rising and falling rapidly with shallow breaths. "We're so smart, aren't we Dave? Carson? Especially you, Dave. You're doing it right now!"

Carson said reluctantly, "I almost can't believe I'm saying this, but I actually agree with Santana."

"So we hang our lives on a substandard, blighted – " Dave began, then gave up. "I'm tired," he said simply. "It's been a long trip."

"I hope," Brittany said happily, "I can help make your stay here on Earth pleasant." She felt sure she could. It seemed to her a cinch, the culmination of her whole life – and of the new authority which she had manifested on the phone that day at work.


	17. Peace and Quiet

They lay for a long time twisted around each other, Kurt lazily stroking Blaine's bicep, enjoying the peaceful moment in silence. Afterward they enjoyed a great luxury. Blaine had room service bring up coffee. He got dressed and sat for a long time in the arms of a green, black and gold leaf lounge chair, sipping coffee and meditating about the next few hours. Kurt, in the midst of a hot shower, hummed and splashed and burst out with random bits of song a few bars at a time.

"You made a good deal when you made that deal," he called out teasingly when he had shut off the water; dripping, he appeared bare and pink at the bathroom door. "We androids can't control our physical, sensual passions. But you knew that, didn't you. In my opinion you took advantage of me." It was said with a playful tone. Kurt seemed more cheerful and relaxed than he ever had in Blaine's presence. "Do we really have to go track down those three andys tonight?"

"Yes," Blaine said. Two for me to retire, he thought; one for you. As Kurt put it, the deal had been made.

Gathering a giant white bath towel around his hips, Kurt said, "Did you enjoy that?"

"Yes."

"Would you ever go to bed with an android again?"

"I would if it was you."

Kurt began drying himself vigorously. "Do you know what the lifespan of a humanoid robot such as myself is? I've been in existence two years. How long do you calculate I have?"

After a hesitation he said, "About eight more years."

"They never could solve that problem. I mean cell replacement. Perpetual or anyhow semiperpetual renewal."

"I'm sorry," Blaine said.

"I'm sorry I mentioned it."

"And this is true with you Nexus-6 types, too?"

"It's the metabolism. Not the brain unit. Burt and Sue have the best researchers working on it, though. Who knows? Maybe they'll find a solution before my eight years are up." He began to dress.

Then together, saying little, the two of them journeyed to the roof field, where his hovercar had been parked by the pleasant white-clad human attendant. As they headed toward the suburbs of San Francisco, Kurt said, "It's a nice night."

"My goat is probably asleep by now," Blaine said. "Or maybe goats are nocturnal. Some animals never sleep. Sheep never do, not that I could detect. Whenever you look at them they're looking back. Expecting to be fed."

"You know," Kurt said, "I've heard far more about your goat than about your wife. What is she like?"

"I don't really want to talk about her," Blaine said stiffly.

"Do you – "

"If you weren't an android," Blaine interrupted, "if you weren't a man…if I could legally marry you, I would."

"Or we could live in sin." Kurt laughed, then abruptly stopped. "Except I'm not alive."

"Legally you're not. But in reality you are. Biologically. You're not made out of transistorized circuits like a false animal. You're an organic entity." And in eight years, he thought, unless the Sylvester-Hummel Association comes up with a miracle cure before then, you'll wear out and die. Because they haven't solved the problem of cell replacement, as you pointed out. So I guess it doesn't matter anyhow.

This is my end, he said to himself. As a bounty hunter. After Karofsky and Lopez there won't be any more. Not after this, tonight.

"You look so sad," Kurt said.

Putting his hand out, Blaine touched Kurt's cheek.

"You're not going to be able to hunt androids any longer," he said calmly. "So don't look sad. Please."

Blaine stared at him.

"No bounty hunter has ever gone on," Kurt said. "After being with me. Well, there was one. A very cynical man. Sebastian Smythe. And he's insane. He works out in left field on his own."

"I see," Blaine said. He felt numb. Completely. Throughout his entire body.

"But this trip we're taking," Kurt said, "won't be wasted, because you're going to meet some truly wonderful people – Dave, Santana, and Carson."

"Do you know all of them?"

"I knew some of them, when they still existed. Rachel and I had been close, very close friends for almost two years. We used to sing together and dream of being stars on Broadway before she was sent to Mars." Kurt smiled wistfully. "I guess I'm glad she did get to live that dream, if only for a short while. What did you think of her? Isn't her voice marvelous?"

"Yes, I found her voice nearly heartbreaking," Blaine said softly.

"But you killed her."

"Sebastian Smythe killed her."

'Oh, so Sebastian went back with you to the theater. We didn't know that. Our communications broke down about then. We knew just that she had been killed. We naturally assumed that you killed her."

"From Shannon's notes," Blaine said, "I think I can still go ahead and retire Karofsky. Probably Lopez, too." But not Carson Philips, he thought. Even now; even knowing this.

"I think you'll find that you can't." Kurt said matter-of-factly.

"So all that just happened at the hotel," he said bitterly, "everything we said and did – all of that was just – "

"The association," Kurt said, "wanted to reach the bounty hunters here on Earth. We tried to stop you this morning, before you started out with Shannon's list. I tried again, just before Azimio Adams reached you. But then after that I had to wait."

"Until I broke down," Blaine said. "And had to call you."

"Yes. I figured it was inevitable," Kurt said blandly. "It was quite clear that you were attracted to me. The association has tried many methods over the years to stop bounty hunters. This method – to put you out of business one by one – seemed to work…for reasons which we do not fully understand."

"I doubt if it works as often or as well as you say," Blaine said thickly.

"But it has with you."

"We'll see."

"I already know," Kurt said. "When I saw that expression on your face, that grief. I look for that."

"How many times have you done this?" Blaine asked, willing himself not to shudder in horror.

"Oh, I don't know," Kurt said airily. "Seven, eight. No, I believe it's nine." He – or rather it – nodded. "Yes, nine times."

"I don't believe you," Blaine said hollowly. "There can't be that many bounty hunters that are – that would – " He rubbed his jaw in frustration. "Surely it would make more sense to use a woman for these seductions. After all, most men would be more attracted to – "

"The association has women who do this too," Kurt said dismissively. "Remember Quinn Fabray, who met you on our roof, along with Sam Evans? We usually start with those two to test your reactions and decide which one of about a dozen of us would be your best match." Kurt studied his nails with a critical expression, pressed a cuticle back with his thumbnail. "Our analysts studied your every move through our extensive surveillance equipment." He looked at Blaine and smirked. "I'm really good at this, so I usually handle all of the bounty hunters on your end of the Kinsey scale."

Blaine remained silent for a moment, jaw held tight. Finally, he said, "The idea is rather old-fashioned for such a modern company."

Startled by Blaine's biting tone, Kurt said, "W-what?"

Pushing the steering wheel away from him Blaine put the car into a gliding decline. "I'm going to kill you," he said. "And go on to kill the other three alone."

"That's why you're landing?" Apprehensively, he said, "There's a fine. I'm the property, the legal property, of the association. I'm not an escaped android who fled here from Mars. I'm not in the same class as the others."

"I don't care," Blaine said coldly. "If I can kill you, then I can kill them."

Kurt's hands dove into his coat pockets, searching frantically.

"Looking for this?" Blaine asked, aiming Kurt's laser gun at him. "I took it from your coat pocket while you were in the shower. I knew it wasn't a fake."

Kurt's eyes flew open wide and he sucked in a shocked breath. Gripping his thighs so tightly that his knuckles turned white he asked in a trembling voice, "Will you kill me in a way that won't hurt? I mean, do it carefully. If I don't fight, okay? I promise not to fight. Do you agree?"

Blaine said, "I understand now why Sebastian said what he said. He wasn't just being a cynical, heartless prick. He had learned too much. Going through this – I can't blame him. It warped him."

"But the wrong way." Kurt seemed more externally composed, now. But still fundamentally frantic and tense.

The car now swooped almost to the ground. Blaine had to jerk the wheel toward him to avoid a crash. Braking, he managed to bring the car to a staggering, careening halt. He slammed off the motor, still pointing the laser tube at Kurt.

"At the occipital bone, the posterior base of my skull," Kurt said. "Please." He twisted about so that he didn't have to look at Blaine or the laser tube.

Lowering the laser tube Blaine said, "I can't do what Sebastian said." He snapped the motor back on, and a moment later they had taken off again.

"If you're ever going to do it," Kurt said, "do it now. Don't make me wait."

"I'm not going to kill you," Blaine said wearily, steering the car toward downtown San Francisco again. "Your car's at the hotel. I'll let you off there and you can go back to Seattle." He had nothing more to say. He drove in silence, focusing on the task ahead and willing away the phantom feel of Kurt's skin beneath his hands, the ghost of Kurt's breath huffing against his mouth.

Kurt switched on the radio and the rich, melodious sounds of Mercedes Jones rippled through the car. Kurt sang a soft harmony that danced above and below the melody filling the car from the speakers.

_And there'll be peace and quiet, smoldering tonight_

_Peace and quiet, marking time between the fights_

_You can pray for gentle weather, and the strength to live together_

_And cry yourself to sleep_

_In the peace and quiet, dark and deep._

Unable to listen any more, Blaine stabbed at the radio button and immediately the car was plunged back into silence. He could hear his own angry breaths, shallow and forced.

"You've gone the way of the others, you know." Kurt's voice was steady and assured. "The bounty hunters before you. Each time they get furious and talk wildly about killing me, but when the time comes they can't do it. Just like you, just now." Kurt fished about in his coat pockets again, pulling out a small plastic container of breath mints and popped one in his mouth. Around it he said, "You realize what this means, don't you? It means I was right. You won't be able to retire any more androids. It won't be just me, it'll be Dave and Santana and Carson, too. So go on home to your goat. And get some rest." He crunched down on the remainder of the breath mint and swallowed.

Blaine said nothing. Beside him in the darkness Kurt sang sweetly under his breath, continuing the song from the radio, his vibrato an unwavering index of his achievement. His victory over Blaine.

_A/n: The lyrics are from the song Peace and Quiet by Jud Caswell. _


	18. Battle

"Having the alarm isn't enough," Dave said firmly. "We'll need weapons – and a strategy."

"I told you I can get a laser tomorrow. Or maybe even something better," Brittany piped up from the kitchen as she washed the dishes.

"Tomorrow may be too late," Carson said grimly, barely glancing up from a book of crossword puzzles he had brought with him from the other apartment, still hurriedly filling out the answers in pen.

"I could go right now," Brittany insisted, dropping the dishrag into the soapy water in her excitement. "I can _help _you – "

"No," Santana said sharply. "We need you here. We can't risk it."

"Let her go if she wants," Dave said, "It's not like she'll be much use to us here."

"That's where you're wrong," Santana said, standing with her hands on her hips right in front of Dave. "She's the only one of us that the bounty hunter isn't actually looking for and can't legally hurt. Whether you like it or not, she's going to be an integral part of our defense strategy." Santana's voice climbed to a fevered pitch as she shook a finger inches from his face. "You lost the vote. Get over it."

Brittany beamed. Feeling almost high with this new level of respect and importance, she said, "I've thought of something else."

"See," Santana said triumphantly.

Dave glowered at her and said nothing.

Carson rolled his eyes. "This ought to be interesting."

"Brittany?" Santana gestured encouragingly. "You were saying?"

"We can go through the empty apartments to find weapons," she said tentatively. "I mean, there probably won't be any laser tubes. The government is pretty strict about having those be registered so it can collect them when people move to Mars. But people left all kinds of stuff here. I'm sure we could find something…"

"Right. Because broken lamps and TV sets are going to help us against a bounty hunter with a laser gun," Carson said sarcastically.

"But I'm sure there's something we could use," Brittany said, desperately battling to come up with an example. "Like, uh, like – "

"Baseball bats or knives or – I don't know – sling shots," Santana cut in with a smile. "Brittany, you are a genius."

She blushed a little and her gaze dropped to the floor. "I don't think anyone's ever called me that. Not even before I was classified as a – well, you know." She didn't want to say it, that stupid word that had so reduced the boundaries of her world, her ability to have true friendships. At least until now. She looked up at Santana again and smiled shyly.

"Yeah, okay," Dave said reluctantly. "That's not a bad idea. We can see what you're able to gather up and then we'll know what we're working with. We can make a plan."

After a short silence, during which all three androids looked at her expectantly, Brittany said, "I d-don't really want to go alone."

"You'll be fine," said Carson immediately.

"We have plans to discuss," agreed Dave.

"But the – the silence…" Brittany pleaded, lower lip starting to tremble as she fixed her eyes on Santana's impassive face.

"I thought you wanted to help," Carson said.

"I do," said Brittany. "Okay, fine. I'll go by myself." She waited just a moment, but again no one volunteered to come with her. Walking with slow, plodding steps toward the door she had a fleeting thought that she was being used, but she realized that she didn't care. Her new friends were exciting and exotic and beautiful. And they voted for her to be part of their group. And they were giving her the opportunity to _help. _I just hope that I'm able to find something useful, she thought. But it wasn't just the deafening silence of the empty apartments that worried her. While it was her idea to look in the other apartments, she didn't really trust herself to be the best judge of what would make a passable weapon. I would hate to lose Santana's confidence in me so quickly by coming back empty handed, she thought morosely. Or worse, with a bunch of useless items.

Her hand is on the doorknob when she realized that she didn't have to go alone. "Lord Tubbington," Brittany exclaimed out loud, turning to rush back to her bedroom, where she had lured the enormous cat and trapped him earlier, at Carson's request.

"What?" asked Santana, who blinked uncomprehendingly after Brittany.

Carson groaned into his hands. "She's getting her giant false cat."

"Her what?" Santana asked incredulously, whipping her head around to stare at him.

"Santana and Dave," Brittany said grandly, "I would like to introduce you to Lord Tubbington." She stepped to the side, holding her arm out in a gesture of presentation. And standing in the hallway was indeed an enormous creature, close in size to an overfed golden retriever, but very clearly a cat, staring at the group with penetrating eyes. "He already met Carson," Brittany adds as an after thought.

"What the hell!" Dave nearly shouted. "Why did you bring that thing out? Are we supposed to use it to terrify the bounty hunter?" Dave tilted his head, l watching as the enormous cat licked a paw nonchalantly. "Actually, maybe that would work."

"No," Brittany said solemnly. "I don't want him in danger. I just thought he could help me find good weapons. I think he was in a gang when he was at the false animal manufacturer's warehouse, before he lived with me."

"Absolutely not," Carson insisted. "We are not having that thing out there wandering the halls. We can't control it. It'll make too much noise. It could give us away. Plus, it's creepy."

"I'll give you that," Dave said, nodding.

"Put the – cat – back in your bedroom," Santana said softly. "I'll go with you to the look for weapons."

"Really? Because Lord Tubbington would be happy to help." They all looked at the cat as it sat, a solid and imposing presence, in the hallway, tail twitching arrythmically from side to side.

"Come on, Brittany," Santana said with a sigh, gesturing until Brittany pushed Lord Tubbington back into her room with a promise of a tasty treat in just a few minutes, shutting the door behind him. "Let's go find some weapons. We can use my flashlight. No need to draw attention to ourselves by turning the lights on." Santana took Brittany's hand and squeezed it. They exchanged a quick smile before heading out the front door. "No need to make things so easy for our would-be killer," Santana called over her shoulder before she flicked off the light switch, plunging them into darkness.

Grumbling, Dave fished out his own flashlight and set it on the table between them, casting a faint light onto the ceiling above. Carson hopped up and closed the blinds to the one window in the living room and returned to his seat.

Blaine steered his hovercar past the building that matched the address Jake Puckerman had given him. It looked completely dark. That makes sense. If the androids actually are still there, they would hardly telegraph their presence by turning on the lights. And out here in the suburbs, more buildings are completely abandoned than not. He found another building, two blocks down, with several glowing lights. He came to a gently landing on that roof, immediately covering his mouth as it opened up into a yawn.

Damn, I'm so tired, he thought. He rubbed both hands vigorously against his eyes, stifled another yawn and wondered how he was going to finish this job so he could earn the right to pass out on his own bed for a few hours.

Now or never, he thought, and dragged his larger tool bag out of the back seat. Slinging it over his shoulder, he unfolded himself from the car and headed toward the elevator.

By the time Blaine walked the two blocks outside in the crisp air he felt much more alert. He eased himself carefully into the front door of the dark building with his infinity key and let the door shut silently behind him. He pulled his sealed-beam flashlight from his jacket pocket, twisted it on and held it in his mouth to illuminate his tool bag. He reached inside, fumbling for his nondirectional Penfield wave transmitter. As he struggled to snap the interlocking parts into place, he leaned his weight onto one knee and almost cried out in pain as he pressed into a stray nail on the floor. The flashlight dropped from his mouth into the bag with a clatter. Now fully awake from the shock of pain, Blaine cursed himself for not assembling the transmitter before walking into the building. He should have walked in with it already on, sending any android or human within into catalepsy and protecting himself while he searched methodically through the apartments, floor by floor.

As Blaine fished the flashlight out of the bag and illuminated his bag once more, he paused, ears straining for any sound in the silence. He could just barely make out a far off, steady tone. An alarm on a higher floor. Now on high alert, Blaine grabbed his laser tube and held it out before him, moving in a slow sweep around the foyer, pointing his weapon and the light in front of him up the stairs. Nothing.

Blaine hoisted the strap of his tool bag over his shoulder and ran lightly up the stairs, willing his footfalls to be silent. He was vulnerable on the stairwell, but he had to get up to a floor with apartments. He chanted silently to himself as he fled up the stairs: find an apartment door, let myself in, make sure it's safe, set up that damn Penfield transmitter. Eyes trained on the stairwell above him and ears straining for any sound, Blaine reached the second floor and headed down the hallway, reaching behind himself for the closest door. Locked, of course.

Blaine reached into his pocket for the infinity key and felt a rush of air just past his right ear. A second later, a small, sharp knife bounced off the wall beside his head and clattered to the ground at his feet. Without a thought, Blaine whipped around, laser beam firing directly into the head of a dark-haired, broad-bodied man.

"Nooooooo!," a broken voice shrieked from the stairwell above. Blaine pointed his laser gun in the direction of the stairs, holding his fire.

Blaine froze momentarily when the owner of the voice came into view. He should have been expecting this, but it was still a shock to see his face. "Kurt?" he said uncertainly, taking in the familiar blue eyes, chestnut hair, and trim figure. But this man wore worn jeans and a pale blue hoodie, his skin just a shade to dark.

"Carson, look out!" came another shout from behind him.

Blaine spun around, laser tube pointing now at a tall, blonde girl. "Who are you? You don't look like Santana Lopez."

"I'm Brittany Pierce. I live in this building. You killed one of my friends." Blaine glanced down to her hand, fingers clasped tightly around a small porcelain statue. An innocuous object meant to sit on a shelf, but it would certainly pack a strong punch if hurled with enough force.

"You're not on my list," Blaine said firmly, glancing back to see Kurt's look-a-like still frozen to the spot on the stairs, staring at Dave's body in horror.

"I protect my friends," Brittany said, her grip tightening on the statue, the muscles in her forearm twitching with tension.

"Stay out of this or I'll shoot," he warned, straightening his arm with the laser tube pointed at her.

"Like hell you will!" The woman's voice barely registered before he felt the pain from a blow to his arm and his gun clattered to the floor and a black-booted foot kicked it away from him as two hands gripped his injured arm in a rough, vice-like grip.

Blaine twisted in her grip, fist already swinging toward her, but a knee connected with his back, causing him to gasp in pain and stumble forward, as another set of hands grabbed his free arm forcefully.

"He got Dave," said Kurt – or Carson, rather – into his ear. Blaine struggled to fight them off but they both twisted his arms sharply and his whole body spasms with the jolt of pain.

"Well now we've got him," the woman twisting his other arm back behind him said thickly. "Brittany," she called to the blonde woman. "Pick up his laser and point it at him."

She took a step forward and bent down to place the statue on the floor and retrieve the laser, never taking her eyes off the other woman. "Santana," she said as she straightened back up, holding the laser awkwardly out from her body. "Is this right?"

"No," Santana said patiently. "You need to turn it the other way."

"Oh," Brittany said, fumbling, with the weapon for a moment before finding the correct hold. "You're right. This feels much better."

"Point it at him," Santana encouraged.

"I-I don't know if I can d-d-do it," Brittany stammered, hand shaking with the laser pointed in Blaine's general direction.

"Yes you can," Santana said firmly, gripping Blaine's arm tighter and twisting it even further into a painful, unnatural angle. Blaine gasped in pain, the blood pounding in his ears, breath coming out in jagged, too-rapid pants. "Just walk closer, carefully," Santana coached Brittany. "Keep it pointed at him. I'll take it from you. But if he makes a move you have to shoot him, okay."

"You won't get away with this," Blaine said weakly. "They'll just send someone else after you, you know."

"We got you," said Carson, from behind his back. "I think we can take care of ourselves."

"Do we have to shoot him?" Brittany asked uncertainly, taking a few steps closer. "Can't we just tie him up? Or I know," she said brightly, "I could shoot him in the foot. Just to keep him from following us. You. For your getaway."

"He killed Dave," Carson said with finality.

"And he'll kill us too, if we give him a chance," Santana agreed. "No, Brittany. There is no choice. We have to kill him."

"Okay," Brittany said shakily and took another step closer, aiming the laser at Blaine's head. Her finger moved closer toward the trigger.

"Drop it!" shouted a high, clear voice. "Drop it or I'll shoot!"

All four of them whipped their heads toward the direction of the voice. On the other side of the stairwell stood a tall, lithe figure, masked in shadow, a laser gun in each hand, one pointed at Santana and the other at Brittany.

Brittany hesitated, her hand visibly shaking. Blaine barely registered the blue laser beam cutting through the air before it hit the gun in Brittany's hand. Brittany yelped, dropping the gun and cradling her hand in the opposite arm. A curl of smoke rose up from the half-melted barrel of the gun lying on the floor.

"Release him, or it'll be your head next," the man in shadows commanded. Santana and Carson loosened their hold Blaine's arms and he yanked himself free of their grip. "Go stand with your friend," the man with the lasers barked sharply, gesturing with one of the guns.

"Who are you? Another bounty hunter?" Santana asked as she and Carson side-stepped toward Brittany, keeping the two lasers in view.

The man stepped forward into the dim light of one of the abandoned flashlights and Blaine gasped. "Kurt!"

Blaine wondered if he was hallucinating for a moment until Santana said snidely, "Oh, look. It's lady-face Hummel. What are you shooting at us for? Aren't you supposed to help us?"

Keeping one laser trained on her, Kurt shoved the other into the waistband of his pants and fished a set of handcuffs out of a utility belt slung low against his hips. He tossed the handcuffs at Blaine and said, "Can I get a little help here?"

"What are you doing here?" Blaine asked incredulously.

"Cuff them first," Kurt said brusquely, tossing another pair of cuffs at Blaine, his eyes still trained on the trio huddled before him. "Then we'll talk."


	19. Plans

After a lengthy debate about whether or not it would be safe to leave Santana, Carson, Brittany alone and cuffed to the railing, punctuated by insults and pleas for freedom from the prisoners, Blaine set up his Penfield mood transmitter with a narrow wave on just the three and sent them into catalepsy. He also hastily retrieved a spare laser from his tool bag and shoved it into his pocket before following Kurt to the elevator.

"Come on," Kurt said, pulling Blaine into the elevator and jabbing at the button for the roof.

Blaine held onto Kurt's wrist as the door closed them in, staring at the rusty red stain on his sleeve. "What happened to you?"

"We'll talk on the roof," Kurt insisted, and they rode the elevator in silence.

As soon as the doors opened, Blaine said, "Okay, you got me up on the roof. Now tell me what the hell is going on."

"Quiet," hissed Kurt, leaving Blaine by the elevator doors while he traversed the nearly empty rooftop at a frenzied pace, examining each corner as if for potential eavesdroppers. "Where's your car?" he asked Blaine brusquely when he returned.

"I parked a few buildings down. I didn't want to alert them to my presence."

"Yeah, me too. I guess that junker must belong to Brittany," Kurt gestured toward the lone car on the roof. "I needed to make sure no one could hear us."

"Why the secrecy?" Blaine said sharply. When Kurt didn't respond he raised his voice and said, "I need answers. Why did you help me?"

"How about some gratitude," Kurt huffed. "I just saved your life."

"At what cost?" Blaine asked, searching his eyes. Kurt looked offended, but Blaine just laughed. "Oh please. Do you really expect me to trust you?"

"I know you feel like I betrayed you," Kurt said calmly. "But I had to say those things." He pushed his blood-stained sleeve up his arm to reveal a blood-soaked bandage. "Sue had me fitted with a tracking device with a GPS and a bug in it." He tugged at the surgical tape and revealed the gaping, torn skin beneath. "I had to rip it out so I could come here without her knowing."

Blaine cringed in sympathy in spite of himself. "That looks painful."

"Hurts like hell," Kurt admitted, fastening the bandage back in place and rolling down his sleeve. "But I did what I had to do. I couldn't very well have Sue Sylvester listening to _this_ conversation."

Blaine's stomach flipped painfully and his whole world tilted on its axis. "_This _conversation. So, you mean, our last encounter – "

"Was bugged, yes." Kurt said.

"So you're saying that Sue Sylvester was listening to our entire encounter?" Blaine's face twisted with fear and disgust.

"Oh don't get all bashful on me, now," Kurt said dismissively. "I hardly think she paid close attention to our more recreational activities. She was more interested in what I said to you afterwards. In the hovercar. She wanted to make sure I was convincing."

"So now you expect me to believe that you were lying about all of that – all of the bounty hunters you've slept with to ruin them at their jobs?" Blaine shook his head. "You are unbelievable, Kurt. Truly. I appreciate your help with the andys." Blaine sighed and continued, his voice saturated with defeat. "Now why don't you head on back to Seattle? That way I can move on with my life and never have to see you again."

"I can't do that," Kurt said softly.

"Why not?"

"Because, I wasn't lying when I said I cared about you."

"Kurt," Blaine said slowly. "I don't believe you. I don't trust you anymore and I don't think I ever will. So really, you should leave." He turned his back on Kurt and pressed the button for the elevator. The doors slid open instantly, but Blaine froze at Kurt's next words.

"But I might be the only one you _can _trust."

The elevator doors slid closed again in front of Blaine's face and he whipped around to face Kurt. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you're placing your trust in the wrong people," Kurt said insistently.

"Who are you talking about?" Blaine demanded. "What do you know?"

"Jake Puckerman," Kurt said. "Your precious police chief boss. He's working with Sue Sylvester, behind the scenes."

"Impossible," Blaine said. "I've known Jake for years. He would never do something like that."

"Are you really so sure?" Kurt said, one eyebrow raised. "How exactly do you think that the androids you hunted were a step ahead of you every step of the way? Who else knew where you were going to be each time besides Jake Puckerman? And why exactly do you think that Jake Puckerman sent you to the Sylvester-Hummel Association first to do that testing? He didn't even give you the information sheets on the andys you were supposed to retire before that, did he? And why do you think he was so reluctant for you to talk to Shannon Beiste?"

Blaine stared at Kurt, silently shuffling through his memories of all of his encounters with his boss over the past few days, feeling betrayed by his own memories.

"I am sorry about those things I had to say to you the last time we spoke," Kurt said earnestly. "I had no choice. I had to make sure she would believe that I was following the company's plan."

"I don't – I don't know…"

Blaine tried to turn away, but Kurt grabbed both of his biceps and looked into his eyes pleadingly. "Don't worry about Puckerman. I have a plan of my own. A plan that I think is good for both of us."

"Why didn't you tell me about your plan before?"

"I could hardly talk about it with Sue listening to our conversation," Kurt said.

"You could have written it on a damned piece of paper or something," Blaine grumbled.

"And risk you saying something about it out loud? Never."

Kurt finally released his grip on Blaine's arms and Blaine stepped back, putting more distance between them. "So now I'm just supposed to believe you? I don't think I ever get a straight story out of you, Kurt. I have no idea what to believe."

"You humans and your damned emotions," Kurt sighed dramatically. "Can you just listen to reason and logic for a minute here? Even if you don't believe me that I could possibly feel anything for you, just think about my own self-interest, here. I want to move to Mars, have a shot at singing on Broadway in New New York. I want to get away from the Association. But I can't do that without a human to take me there. And we have the perfect opportunity."

"Even if I did believe you, what about my job?" Blaine asked.

"Oh please, we both know you're done killing androids. Plus, I was serious about Puckerman. You can't tell me you're willing to keep working for a guy who has no problem setting you up to be killed."

"But why would he do that?"

"Cash. The association pays him – and several other police officials across the country – handsomely for their help putting you bounty hunters out of commission one by one," Kurt said knowingly. "He is not going to want the information I have on him getting out to his superiors – or to the public. So I'm sure he'll be cooperative and send some of that cash your way – as well as any paperwork you and I may need to make our relocation to Mars perfectly legal."

"Why would I want to go to Mars with you?" Blaine asked. "If I wanted to go, I would go with my wife. I'm pretty sure she wants to move there anyway."

"Because," Kurt said slowly, stepping close to Blaine and tracing a finger down his chest, "if you go to Mars with me, you get to do this every day." Kurt cupped Blaine's jaw with both hands and leaned forward, bringing their lips together. Blaine heard a desperate whine escape his own lips and suddenly he was digging his fingers into Kurt's back, pulling him closer as they kissed hungrily.

Forcing himself to release his grip on Kurt and pull away, Blaine panted, "There are too many loose ends. The association will never let you leave. I have my wife. We can't take the goat with us. It will never work."

"I have a plan," Kurt said. "I've thought of everything."

"How am I supposed to believe you?"

"Blaine," Kurt said meaningfully, "sometimes you just have to be willing to take that leap." He pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his pants pocket and handed it to Blaine. "Bring this to Jake Puckerman and demand answers. He'll fold. That'll show you I'm right."

"I don't think I can do this, Kurt," Blaine said, holding a hand up over his still tingling lips protectively.

"You don't have to decide right away," Kurt said. He gestured toward the still folded paper in Blaine's hand. "Read that over. It explains everything. Talk with Puckerman." He paused a moment, then added, "But you'll need to do something a little unorthodox – to keep your options open."

Blaine looked down at the paper and back at Kurt. "And what is that, exactly?"

In early morning hours, when Blaine called in his report on the body count, he asked the officer on duty to schedule a meeting for him with Jake Puckerman. Hours later, when he finally crawled into bed, Tina was still peacefully asleep. She made a tiny noise of protest when the bed moved and turned onto her side, her breathing instantly evening out again into sound slumber.


	20. Loyalty

Blaine groaned when his alarm went off, cursing himself for forgetting to set the mood organ to wake him instead. He laid a heavy hand on the clock to silence the alarm and rolled out of the bed, his feet slamming onto the floor jarringly.

"Oh good, you're awake," Tina said in that unusual, cheery voice she seemed to have adopted since yesterday.

Blaine blinked up at her from the console of the Penfield mood organ, scrolling through the two hundreds for something that would give him the appropriate level of awake and alert to face his meeting with Jake Puckerman.

"What can I get you for breakfast?" Tina asked with a smile. She was already dressed, again eschewing her typical black and grey for bright colors and light fabrics, the skirt swishing prettily around her legs as she twitched her hips in an almost unconscious dance.

He rubbed a hand over his face and said thickly, "I didn't know you owned anything that isn't black. First yesterday and now today…"

"I love bright colors," Tina said, beaming as though Blaine's grumpy mood couldn't possibly get her down. "But you are right. My current wardrobe has way too many dull pieces. I might have done just a little bit of shopping yesterday."

"But Tina, we can't afford – "

"Don't worry, Blaine," she practically sang the words, still swaying to a phantom rhythm. "I'm very good at finding a bargain. I hardly spent anything at all. Breakfast?"

"Coffee, for now," Blaine said, his slow fingers still hovering over the Penfield dial. "What did you dial today?" Certainly whatever Tina used had worked wonders and following suit would save him the trouble of picking a setting for himself.

"Nothing, silly," she said, twirling happily and then skipping out of the bedroom toward the kitchen. "I'll make you some eggs and toast."

Blaine stared at the now empty doorway for a long time, bewildered by how much had changed in just two days. He was struck with a worrying thought, but quickly shook his head and huffed out a low chuckle. No, if someone had decided to replace his wife with an android, they would have tried a bit harder to imitate her personality. After all, such a drastic change would be suspicious. Drastic mood swings should be considered a proof of one's humanity. Reassured, he punched in 218 and smiled in relief as his body flooded with renewed energy. I hardly need that coffee now, he thought. But Tina is being so sweet. I really should try to eat something before I go.

He smiled and chatted pleasantly with Tina over breakfast, now that their moods were more closely aligned. When he promised to be home early and leaned in for a goodbye kiss, she flinched slightly and turned her head to the side, offering her cheek instead. At his puzzled frown she said, "Coffee breath." Shrugging, he kissed her cheek and pulled away, rummaging in the closet for his protective outerwear.

"What does early mean, exactly?" Tina asked just before Blaine slipped out the door.

He sighed, a hint of annoyance starting to infringe upon the edges of his alert and businesslike mood. There was a hard edge to his voice as he said, "I don't know exactly. Just – earlier than normal."

"I'd like to know when to start dinner," Tina said, an edge creeping into her voice as well. She seemed almost anxious. "You know I hate trying to keep dinner warm for the hours between what you and I think is coming home early."

"I'll text you," Blaine said. "When I leave the office."

"That's perfect," Tina said, beaming once more.

When Blaine arrived at the police headquarters on Lombard, he walked with quick strides toward his office, avoiding eye contact with his colleagues. When he ignored Kitty's usual snide greeting, however, she darted in front of his office door and stood with her hands on her hips. Blaine sighed. "I'm really not in the mood today, Kitty. Just step aside, okay?"

"Is that what they said to you, then?" Kitty said snidely. "Step aside? You know that Shannon Beiste would never have let an andy get away."

Blaine glared at her, counting his breaths until they were under control. "I didn't _let_ anyone get away," he said in clipped tones. "You weren't there. You have no idea what happened. Now please get out of my way so I can get into my office and do my job."

"You should be out there looking for them right now," Kitty said, taking a reluctant step out of the path to the door.

"Just do your job, Kitty," Blaine practically growled at her. "And let me do mine."

"Okay, okay," she said, holding her hands up in a mocking gesture of surrender. "I didn't realize you were going to be so damn sensitive today. Usually you can take a little good natured teasing."

Blaine ignored her and stepped into his office. Closing the door behind him firmly, he leaned against it for a moment and breathed, willing his heart rate to slow. He patted his jacket pockets, reassured by the crinkling of the paper inside and pulled it out to study it once more.

Clutching the paper like a lifeline, Blaine sighed heavily and crossed the room. He sat down at his computer, opened a lab report template, and began to type.

Forty minutes later, Blaine marched into Jake Puckerman's office, not even bothering to knock. Jake glanced up at him briefly, waving at him to take a seat while he continued a phone call. Blaine fidgeted restlessly as the call stretched on. The few businesslike phrases scattered amidst the joking and pleasantries were shreds of clues too tattered for Blaine to piece together who was on the other end of the conversation. Blaine suspected Jake had a host of people on speed dial that he could conveniently call whenever he had a meeting scheduled with a subordinate. After all, nothing says, "my time is more valuable than yours," quite like holding someone hostage to one-half of a phone conversation.

"So," Jake Puckerman said loudly, jolting Blaine out of his thoughts. Jake spun his chair away from the phone and focused his gaze on Blaine. "You've done pretty well. Shannon said you could handle it." Jake stretched his arms and cracked his knuckles. "Honestly, I was surprised. I really didn't think you could handle the pressure."

"I can handle andys," Blaine said. "Though I will say it gets a bit harder when my own boss stacks the deck against me."

Jake raised his eyebrows in surprise. "What on earth is that supposed to mean?"

Blaine stared at him in silence.

After a moment, Jake forced out a laugh and walked around his desk to clap Blaine on the shoulder. "You must be really tired after all that hard work, Blaine," Jake said slowly. "I think you're a bit loopy from lack of sleep. Why don't you go on home and – "

"Cut the crap," Blaine said flatly. "I know."

"What exactly is it that you think you know?" Jake Puckerman said, returning Blaine's stare unflinchingly.

"I know that you're a pawn of the Sylvester-Hummel Association."

"That's quite an accusation," Jake said slowly.

"I should have suspected it from the beginning, with you sending me off to try to invalidate our testing apparatus before I could even begin to look for the escaped androids," Blaine said. "And you sent Azimio right to me, after feeding me the lie that he was an officer with the Kenyan police."

"That's preposterous," Jake said. "Really, Blaine. Do you know how ridiculous you sound? Testing our apparatus before you killed any innocent human beings was the wise thing to do. And it gave you experience with the Nexus-6 unit, didn't it?" Jake stepped back and sat on the edge of his desk. "I honestly don't know what happened at the Sylvester-Hummel Association, Blaine. You weren't exactly brimming with details about that trip, were you? But I trusted you that you got the information you needed. And I was as shocked about Omondi turning out to be Azimio as you were." Jake smiled, his tone reminiscent of what you would use to calm a frightened animal. "Like I said, you must be tired. Why don't you get some more rest? I'm sure things will be clearer tomorrow."

"You didn't seem all that concerned about me getting enough rest last night," Blaine said. "In fact, you pushed me to go after those andys when I was utterly sleep deprived."

"That's enough!" Puckerman shouted. "I'm trying to be patient with you, but I've reached my limit. I'm going to have to speak with Shannon about formal disciplinary measures."

"You didn't want me to talk to Shannon," Blaine said with sudden realization. "Did you set her up, too? Are you trying to get all of your bounty hunters killed?"

"Blaine, you do realize it's not wise to make a bunch of baseless accusations against your boss, don't you?" Jake said, his voice low and dangerous. "It's not particularly good for job security."

"Having a boss who's actively trying to get me killed isn't very good for life security. And it's not baseless." He pulls the wrinkled paper from his jacket pocket, unfolds it, and holds it up in Jake's line of sight. "I have phone records of your calls with Sue Sylvester. I've seen the transcripts, too."

"Oh please," Jake said derisively, rolling his eyes. "Of course I speak regularly with staff of the Sylvester-Hummel Association. They are the world's largest manufacturer of humanoid robots, after all. And anyone can type out a bunch of nonsense and tell you it's the phone transcript. Who gave that to you?"

Jake reached for the paper but Blaine jerked his hand back, clutching it to his body. "I have access to the recordings," he said firmly.

Jake narrowed his eyes and tilted his head thoughtfully. "What is it that you want, Blaine?"

"I'll quit and emigrate to Mars and I'll keep your secret safe. You'll be free to collaborate with the Sylvester-Hummel Association for as long as you want." Blaine leaned forward, his eyes boring into Jake's. "But I want a bonus – twenty thousand dollars at least." Blaine rifled through the file folder balanced on his lap and pulled out a stack of papers. "Also, I need your clearance on these two lab reports, no questions asked." He held the freshly printed sheets out toward Jake. "And I need your signature on this set of paperwork, too."

In the long silence that follows, Blaine hears the ticking of the clock on the wall behind him, the clacking of heels against the floor of the hallway outside Jake's office. He was just beginning to wonder if he had made a monumental mistake when Jake sighed, rubbed a hand over his face, and reached out for the papers.

Jake walked back around the desk and sat heavily in the chair, flipping through the papers and examining each carefully. Finally, he said, "How can I give you a bonus without raising questions?"

"I'm the only bounty hunter to ever retire eight Nexus-6 andys in less than twenty-four hours. I should be getting the keys to the city, or your job. But I just want some cash – and your signature," Blaine said dryly.

"But you didn't retire eight – "

"Oh but I did," said Blaine, gesturing toward the papers in Jake's hand. "And you can take all the glory for it, as long as you meet my demands."

"It's quite a list of demands," Jake said, brows raised.

"It pales in comparison to list of infractions I have on you," Blaine said. "And I'd be happy to give Channel Four an exclusive on a certain corrupt San Francisco Police Department official who puts his own interests above the safety of the people he is sworn to protect." He wags his phone back and forth. "I have them on speed dial."

"And why shouldn't I kill you right now?"

"Let's just say I have a friend who has a great interest in making sure I arrive safely on Mars and that all of my demands are met. You don't think I would be dumb enough to come in here without putting that kind of safeguard into place, do you?"

Jake stared at him for a long time saying nothing.

xxxxxx-xxxxxx-xxxxxx-xxxxxx-xxxxxx-xxxxxx-xxxxxx-xxxxxx-xxxxxx-xxxxxx-xxxxxx-xxxxxx-xxxxxx-xxxxxx

"Jake Puckerman tells me Mr. Anderson is planning to relocate to Mars," Sue said. "I suppose I should congratulate you. I thought you screwed up this job royally since he obviously was able to continue annihilating escaped Nexus-6 models even after the supposedly life-changing experience of going to bed with you."

"If all he wanted was sex, he would have taken me up on the offer the first time I offered," Kurt said to his laptop screen.

"So what changed between last night and now?" Sue asked.

"I play the long game," Kurt said airily. "He can't possibly bear the thought of retiring any more andys now that he's in love with me, so he's quite happy to slink off to Mars with his tail between his legs. As long as he has the proper companion."

"Your deviousness is surpassed only by your loyalty," Sue said proudly. "And I really thought he would fall for the owl. Jake told me about his obsession with rare animals."

"Yes, but you forget that some humans have a moral code," Kurt said, grinning coldly. "He needed romance – and emotional connection. I let him play the hero, rescuing me from an existential crisis. And what do you know? It turns out we both love show tunes."

"I really didn't need to know that," Sue said with a grimace. "But I will say I admire your talent. You always were a good actor."

Kurt smiled lightly, proud of himself for not showing a trace of pain on his face when he squeezed the hard black tracking device into the shredded skin under the sleeve of his jacket. "I'm getting the paperwork ready for Mr. Anderson's android companion. I think I know just what he would like."


	21. Anticipation

Blaine sat on a cinderblock at one edge of his rooftop pasture, stroking a hand over the wiry fur and knobby head of his goat. He was staring, fascinated, into the goat's rectangular pupils when he heard heels clicking against the pavement behind him.

"How long have you been home?" Tina asked as she crouched down beside him.

"Not long," Blaine said, shuffling to one side to make room for Tina on the cinder block. "Maybe half an hour. I just wanted to see how this little lady was doing." Blaine tugged gently on the goat's silken ear.

"I thought you were going to text me when you were on your way," Tina said softly, reaching out a hand to pet the goat.

"Oh Tina, you're right," Blaine said, clapping a hand to his forehead. "I'm sorry. I forgot. It was a pretty crazy day."

"It's okay," she said, leaning her head against his shoulder. "I'm sorry, too."

"You don't have to apologize," Blaine said. "I don't mind that you wanted to know when I would be home."

"That's not – "

"I think we should name her Nova," Blaine said dreamily. "She represents a new beginning in our lives – a new, bright light. And it's even more appropriate, since she's out here under the stars every night. What do you think?"

"Blaine," Tina said slowly, "I need to tell you something,"

"I have some news for you, too," Blaine said. "Really good news." He turned to look at her with a smile. Her gaze was fixed on the ground. Blaine reached out and stroked Tina's cheek before gently tucking her hair behind her ear. "I can finally give you something you've wanted for so long. We're moving to Mars."

Blaine turned more fully toward her, resisting the urge to bounce up and down in anticipation as he watched for the delight to bloom in her face. But when Tina finally meets his eyes, her face is lined with worry. "Blaine, we can't. I can't – "

Blaine grabbed both of her hands in his and jumped in with a rush of frantic words. "Of course we can. I know it's hard since we just got Nova, but I got a bonus at work. For retiring so many andys in one day. We can make all the payments. And I have a friend who can take care of her." Blaine stood up, tugging at Tina's hands until she followed him to her feet. "I'm quitting my job. We'll move to Mars like you've always wanted. You'll be able to work again. Plenty of pregnant women on Mars and they'll need a midwife. It will be an amazing new beginning for us!" Blaine pulled her into a tight hug, lifting her a few inches off the ground and spinning her around happily. Finally, Blaine set Tina back on her feet and pulled back a few inches, peering into her face with a big smile.

A small smile tugged at the corners of Tina's lips. "Wow, Blaine. It's been so long since you've done that," she said, her tone edging into wistfulness.

Blaine grabbed Tina's shoulders and said excitedly, "And we each get to have an android companion designed to our specifications."

Tina's face fell. "I can't think of two people on Earth who should be less interested in androids as companions than us."

Blaine froze for a moment, turned away to cough briefly, and schooled his face into a more sober expression. "Right. Well, they'll make us take androids anyway." He clasped and unclasped his hands. "Might as well get ones we like."

Tina reached for his hand. "Blaine – "

"This is a dream come true for us, Tina."

She tried again in a louder voice. "Blaine – "

"I bet you can't wait to tell your parents."

"Let me talk, Blaine!" Tina shouted. Blaine's mouth snapped shut and he took a small step back. "Sorry," she said immediately in a softer, sadder voice. "Blaine, honey. I really need to tell you something. Can we go inside?"

Blaine nodded silently and followed her to the elevator.

Fifteen minutes later, Blaine sat across from Tina at their kitchen table, an untouched cup of coffee cooling in front of him. Tina continued to talk and and gesture almost wildly, but Blaine was having a hard time focusing on her words. His gaze kept drifting over her shoulder to a stair step crack connecting the top corner of the kitchen door with the ceiling. Blaine wondered if it had just appeared in the past two days or if he had just not noticed it until now. "I'm so sorry, Blaine. But I think this is for the best," Tina said, sitting back in her chair and watching his face expectantly.

"Wait – so you – you just…" Blaine's words trailed off and he forced his gaze off of the crack and back to Tina's face. "When did this happen?"

"Just this week," Tina said, deep red blooming on her cheeks. "He works for the animal hospital." At Blaine's puzzled look she clarified, "The false animal repair shop. The one you had me call the day Groucho malfunctioned."

"The day before yesterday," Blaine said softly. "The day I started looking for the Nexus-6 andys." It felt like two lifetimes had passed since he was given the assignment.

"The repair didn't take long, so I asked him if he wanted to come in for a cup of coffee," Tina said, eyes sparkling with the memory. "We talked for hours. We even danced a little. He's an incredible dancer."

"I really don't want to hear this," Blaine said, his eyes darting back toward the crack on the wall.

"Sorry," Tina gasped, clasping a hand over her mouth. She lowered the hand slowly and said guiltily, "You're right. Of course you don't want to hear the details. And I'm so sorry to do this to you, Blaine." She reached across the table and laid her hand on top of his, but he pulled out of her gentle grip and put both hands in his lap. Sighing, Tina leaned back in her seat and ran a hand through her hair. "You have to admit that we're not good together. Not as husband and wife. Can you even remember the time either one of us was happy – truly happy – without artificial brain stimulation?"

"I don't know," Blaine said dejectedly. "I guess not."

"We've always been better at being friends than we were at being a couple," Tina said with a sad smile. "I think that's why I wanted gush over all the details with you." Blaine's eyes flew open in alarm but she quickly continued, "I won't, though. I promise. I know that's not fair to you. But I can't go with you to Mars."

After a long silence, Blaine asked, "What are you going to do?"

"Move in with him," she said. "I can leave tomorrow, if you want. Maybe we'll end up going to Mars, too. Mike seemed open to the idea."

"No," Blaine said. "No, you don't need to leave. I'll be heading to Mars by the end of the week. He can – um – he can move in with you here. This is a nice apartment. A good part of town. Good neighbors. And you don't have to move Groucho that way. Or Nova."

"You're still going to Mars without me?" Tina said, brow furrowed. "I didn't think you were interested in – "

"There's not much left for me here, is there?" Blaine said sharply.

"Okay," Tina said slowly. "I suppose I deserved that. But you don't have to leave me the goat. She's yours. You picked her out and you named her. You paid for her. In fact, maybe you should sell her and make some money for your new start."

"I don't want to sell her," Blaine said dejectedly, tapping his fingers against the tabletop. "I want to know she has someone to take care of her."

"Well, Mike and I are probably heading for Mars soon, too. We couldn't take Nova or Groucho with us. Maybe Finn Hudson would want her," Tina said thoughtfully. "He takes really good care of his horse. And he's right here in the building."

Blaine's fingers froze in mid-tap. "Right here in the building," he repeated. "That is a good idea."

"So, you're going to sell her to Finn?" Tina asked.

"I've got to go," Blaine said, pushing the chair back from the table and rising to his feet.

"What? Where?"

"I just need to – process everything," said Blaine, walking toward the door.

Tina jumped up and stood in his path. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," he said. "I mean, I will be. We both will." He put his arms around her and pulled her toward him in a gentle hug. "You're right about us being better as friends."

Tina squeezed him tightly, pressing her face against his shoulder and mumbling into it. " – at me?"

"What?" Blaine asked, pushing her back gently.

Tina looked down at the floor. "So you're not too angry with me?"

"No," Blaine said with a sigh. "How can I be? You smile whenever you think about him." Tina looked up at Blaine, her eyes wet with tears, a wistful smile on her lips. Blaine added, "It's good to see. I want you to be happy."

They hugged again and Blaine stroked her hair. "I'm going to go now," he said gently and stepped away. "There's something I need to do."

Blaine stooped down to grab his briefcase and stepped out the door. Feeling suddenly light, he bounded toward the stairwell and jogged down three flights of stairs, then up the hallway. He halted in front of apartment 15F and rapped his knuckles in a practiced rhythm on the door. "It's Blaine, open up."

The door swung slowly inward. An overly large cat stood in the doorway protectively. Blaine side-stepped past it, smiling broadly at the woman closing the door behind him. "Brittany," he said brightly, "how would you like to own a goat?"

"A real one?" she asked breathlessly.

"Yes," said Blaine, grinning.

"Wait." Brittany frowned in concentration. "You don't mean one of those adopt a goat things where you just get to see a picture of the goat, do you?"

Blaine shook his head slowly. "No, I mean a real, black Nubian goat. She's on the roof pasture right now."

"Sweet," Brittany said. "Of course I do, Blaine. That would be awesome."

"Okay, hold up a minute," Santana said, walking briskly into the living room. "How are we going to be able to afford payments on a goat? I can't even leave the house, let alone get a job."

"Actually," Blaine said, "the goat is completely paid off. I was able to get a nice bonus from my boss when I quit today, thanks to some very useful information from Kurt. You two can have my fake sheep, too. I can have the papers drawn up by the end of the week."

"A goat and a sheep," Brittany practically squealed, bouncing a bit on her toes and clapping her fingers together joyfully. "We'll be rich."

"What's the catch, Mr. Assassin?" Santana said snidely. "Are you going to give us phony papers so you can call it in as a theft right before you get on that rocket? Send one of your cronies to kill me, like you killed my friends?"

"Actually, I got you something so you won't have to worry about that anymore," Blaine said, reaching into his briefcase and pulling out a small plastic booklet. "It's your paperwork. I created an official, human identify for you at the station and got my boss to sign off on it. It has you classified as a special already – for diminished reproductive and mental faculties." Santana opened her mouth to protest, but Blaine continued before she could speak. "It's better this way. If you're already classed as a special they won't test you at the roadblocks, they'll just send you on your way. That means less chance of discovery for you." He hands the booklet to Santana, and she thumbs through it. "I have one for Carson, too. Where is he?"

"The idiot took off somewhere. Couldn't handle being a third wheel, I guess," Santana said with a shrug.

"I guess we could have tried not to be so loud," said Brittany.

"I like it when you're loud," Santana said with a wink. "Especially when you – "

"I'll just hang onto this for when Carson gets back," Blaine cut in brusquely. He cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly from foot to foot as Santana sauntered over to Brittany and snaked an arm around her waist. "So, you're free to stay here if you like. Or find another vacant apartment in the building."

"This one is pretty good," said Brittany. "But some of the furniture is already starting to kipple-ize."

"Kipple-ize?"

"Decay," offered Santana.

"Everything turns into kipple when there's no one here to take care of it," Brittany explained. "But it's okay. Santana will go with me to the other empty apartments to find better stuff."

"We can just wait a few days and move into his apartment when he leaves," Santana said to Brittany. "I'm sure he has great stuff."

"My wife is staying in the apartment," Blaine said. "At least for a little while. You can move in or bring some of our stuff here after she and her – um – boyfriend move to Mars, but I don't know when that will be."

"Congratulations, Blaine!" Brittany exclaimed with a broad smile.

He stared at her dumbly for a few minutes, unsure what to make of her reaction. "W-what?"

"Congratulations," Brittany repeated, grabbing and shaking his hand enthusiastically. "Now you don't have to worry any more about your wife being lonely while you're with Kurt."

"I don't know what you mean," Blaine said slowly, the blood draining from his face and leaving him light-headed.

"Oh please," Santana scoffed. "We all know why you're going to Mars. It's the same reason you agreed to let me and Carson live. You have the hots for Kurt Hummel. Or maybe even had sex with him already, and you'd do anything for more."

"I – " Blaine stumbled backwards, reaching behind himself with one hand for the edge of the couch. When he reached it, he crumpled into a sitting position.

"We're not going to turn you in for crimes against morality," Santana said. "And it's actually easier to engage in that kind of thing once you're on Mars. Society is a lot more permissive there. Not that I wouldn't get some satisfaction from getting you locked up before you ever get on that shuttle. Even if it won't bring back any of my friends that you killed."

"I was just doing my job," Blaine said wearily, cradling his head in his hands. "And I quit. All I want now is to go to Mars and start a new life."

"You know he's just using you, don't you?" Santana said, a hint of a cruel smile on her lips. "Kurt is one hundred percent loyal to the Sylvester-Hummel Association. This whole 'love and trust' schtick," she gestured dismissively, "is just a ploy to get you out of the picture so you can't keep destroying the company's products. He's done it a dozen times before."

"No, you're wrong," Blaine said, carefully keeping his voice firm and steady. "I believe him."

Santana perched, catlike, on the couch next to him and placed a hand lightly on his knee. The soothing gesture was in stark contrast to the contempt in her voice. "The world would be a much easier place for androids if more humans – especially bounty hunters – had such faith in us. Which is exactly why Kurt used you the way he did. He's a cold, heartless android, just like me."

"But Santana, you're not like that," Brittany said. "You're nice to me. Nicer than a lot of humans are."

"It's different with you," Santana said, her voice sweet and sincere. "We have a connection."

Blaine pushed Santana's hand off his knee and crossed his arms protectively, pressing himself toward the corner of the couch to gain a few inches of distance between them. "A connection." Blaine scoffed. "Perhaps. Certainly this arrangement is beneficial to you. And I know androids are nothing if not self-interested."

"Don't listen to him," Santana warned.

"It's okay," Brittany said. "I know you're using me a little. But we both get something out of it."

"Exactly," said Blaine. "And that's how I know Kurt is coming back for me. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement."

"Even if he does come back for you, how will you know it's really Kurt? The Association can whip up an exact replica in a matter of days. For all you know, they had one already waiting in the wings." She narrowed her eyes at him for a moment and then laughed. "Although I guess you wouldn't care. We're all interchangeable to you humans. You won't even notice if it's not actually him. Not until the day the imposter gets rid of you by arranging a _tragic accident._" She makes the quotations gesture in the air.

"You're wrong," Blaine said with conviction, "about everything. No one could replicate Kurt. I would be able to tell in a second." He settled in to wait, hoping he was right.


	22. Journey

_**AN: I owe a very special thank you to curtslade. You were the best cheerleader I could have hoped for and your lovely and encouraging comments provided so much inspiration to me to continue with this story. Thank you! Also, I would like to give a shout out to Tariff for so faithfully reviewing each chapter. It's been a wonderful journey. Thanks for sharing it with me.**_

After six days, Blaine had bitten most of his fingernails down to the quick. He had packed and repacked his suitcases, jogged up and down the building's sixteen flights multiple times a day to burn off nervous energy, and spent many hours grooming and playing with Nova. He also fed Groucho and cleaned up after him, but otherwise ignored the electric animal in favor of the genuine one. A few times, Brittany came with him, learning the care of the animals that would soon belong to her.

Tina had left four days ago, when sharing a bed with Blaine had become too awkward to bear. Finn Hudson had been on the roof taking care of his horse the day Blaine waited with Tina for the hover-taxi. He watched Blaine load the small suitcase into the back and saw their brief, awkward hug just before Tina climbed in and the taxi took off, leaving Blaine on the roof alone. When Finn asked where Tina was going, Blaine said she was taking care of a sick friend for a few days. Blaine wasn't about to tell the neighbor that his wife was living temporarily with her lover. He would let her handle the uncomfortable explanations when he left for Mars and she and Mike moved back to the apartment.

In the meantime, Blaine spent each evening holding an uneasy vigil in Brittany and Santana's apartment. Brittany treated him like an injured animal – speaking softly, smiling broadly, and encouraging him to eat and to rest. Santana circled him like a vulture, waiting for moments when Brittany was out of earshot to toss out stinging barbs of mockery, laughing at him for continuing to wait for someone she swore would never come.

Blaine had been dozing on their couch for almost two hours on Wednesday night when a staccato knock startled him out of an uneasy sleep. Brittany and Santana looked at him expectantly from the hallway. As soon as he made eye contact, Santana wrapped an arm around Brittany and steered them both backwards toward the bedroom with slow, silent steps.

Blaine sighed and rolled his neck, cringing at the loud pop. His limbs felt unwieldy as he dragged himself off the sofa and took a few heavy, uneven steps.

Another knock rang through the air and Blaine's entire body twitched at the sound, much louder now that he was almost at the door. He drew back the bolt and swung the door open immediately. He was sure it would either be Kurt or Carson, but he realized as the door opened to reveal the familiar figure that it would have been better to ask who was first. It would have saved him the embarrassment of having to guess. Blaine took in the man's appearance head to toe, searching for clues. He wore a standard overcoat with built-in safety features to shield him from the radioactive dust. Dark jeans hugged his calves and his shoes were dressy, but not overly fashionable. His hair was swept back but windblown, the original style difficult to discern. His eyelids drooped over pale blue eyes, weary with exhaustion and underlined with puffy, dark bags.

"Kurt?" Blaine asked uncertainly.

"It's time to go," Kurt said brusquely, pushing past Blaine and striding into the apartment. "Have you made your arrangements?" He spun around, surveying the empty living room and kitchen "Where is your wife?"

"She's not coming," Blaine said. "She – um. She found someone else."

"Oh," Kurt said, still glancing nervously around the room. Almost absently, he added, "I'm sorry."

"No," Blaine said quickly. "It's not like that. I'm happy for her – mostly. We're better as friends anyway."

"That's good," Kurt said, stepping out of his overcoat and holding it out toward Blaine without looking at him. Blaine took the coat, folding it over one arm. Kurt was dressed very simply in form fitting blue jeans and a black t-shirt.

"Your arm," Blaine said questioningly, stepping forward and curling his free hand around Kurt's bicep. He rubbed his thumb gently over the smooth skin. Kurt jerked his arm out of Blaine's grip and took a step back, his eyes wide.

"Carson?" asked Brittany, stepping cautiously from the bedroom door and tugging Santana into the hallway after her. Kurt squinted at each of them for a long moment before acknowledging them. "Brittany, Santana," he said, nodding at each of them.

"It is Carson!" Brittany exclaimed with a knowing look at Santana, grinning. "I knew it would be you," she said, bounding forward and throwing her arms around him in a tight hug.

"No, not Carson," he said, extricating himself from her limbs and stepping out of her grasp. "I'm Kurt."

"Bullshit," said Santana matter-of-factly. "You're not either of them. You had to think about our names. Don't think I didn't notice you studying us. The gears turning in your brain as you matched up the names you memorized with the appropriate hair colors are visible from space, Imposter. You might as well have just called us the blond and the brunette. Besides," she continued, pointing at him accusingly, "last time we saw Kurt he had a gaping wound the size of Texas on his arm."

"I heal quickly," the man said dryly.

Blaine, Brittany and Santana traded skeptical looks. The man ignored them and asked, "Isn't Carson here? I left him with you."

"No, he's been missing for days now," Blaine said. "We thought Ku – you might know where he is. I have paperwork for him that might help him stay safe."

"Oh," the man said mechanically. "I guess he thought he'd be safer on his own. I'm sure he's made it at least to Canada by now." He picked a thread off his shirt and flicked it unceremoniously to the floor. "I don't expect you'll see him again."

"I'll miss him," Brittany said with a small sniff.

The man just stared at her with a puzzled expression, as if trying to work out the mechanics behind one person missing another. Blaine looked down and realized he was making fists so tight that the veins of his hands were popping angrily to the surface. He forced himself to breath and stretched his fingers open wide. His fingernails left crescent-shaped welts on his palms and he rubbed them for relief, first one hand and then the other.

"Why didn't the Association stop him before he killed almost all of my friends?" Santana shook her fist at the man and shouted. "Or better yet, why did they make me like this? Huh? Tell me, Mr. Imposter. If they can just stamp out endless identical versions of Santana and Kurt – one after the other for eternity – why did they have to make me care about what happens to my life? Couldn't they have made me happy to stay on Mars, to be a slave to a human who didn't care about me?" Santana's voice cracked as she shouted, tears glistening in her eyes. Brittany wrapped an arm around her and rubbed comforting circles onto her arm. "You and all the other Kurts and Carsons. Me and all the other Santanas that are out there. We look exactly alike, just like ants. Why can't we be like ants and not _feel _so damn much!"

The man looked somewhere past her and said so softly that even Blaine, standing right next to him, could barely make out the words. "They may stamp us out like ants or bottle caps, but even they can't keep us from being unique. We're so complex that we're bound to evolve, to have our own memories, to matter."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Santana spat out through her tears.

"Come on," Blaine said, stepping toward Kurt and placing a hand at his lower back. "It's time for us to go. I have everything ready for the trip. We can grab the bags from my apartment and go to the shuttle right now."

"Are you out of your mind?" Santana said. "He's as good as admitted that he's an imposter. And you're going to take him with you to Mars?"

"Yes," Blaine said coldly, still guiding the other man toward the door. "He looks and sounds like Kurt, and that's good enough. I guess you were right about me, after all." He grabbed the other man's hand in his and swung the door open. "Goodbye Brittany. Goodbye Santana."

"Goodbye," Brittany said with a wave, a confused half-smile playing on her lips. "I hope you have a good trip." Santana stood sullen and silent beside her.

"Come on, _Kurt_," Blaine said pointedly. "Let's go to Mars."

_**[There will be one final chapter – an epilogue – coming soon.]**_


	23. Epilogue

Blaine cushioned his head in that perfect space between Kurt's shoulder and chest, his bent leg wrapped around Kurt's outstretched thigh. "That was great," he sighed into Kurt's warm skin. "Can we celebrate like that after every performance?"

Kurt chuckled. "Absolutely. I'm well-known for my stamina."

"Oh, really?" Blaine said, his voice veering low and seductive. He lifted his head and leaned over Kurt, bracing himself with his hands on the mattress on either side of him. "Is that a promise?"

"If you want it to be," Kurt said coyly.

Blaine pressed forward and captured his lips in a soft, sweet kiss. "Congratulations," he said, pulling back mere centimeters, the warmth of Kurt's lips permeating the air between them in the ghost of a kiss. "You were fantastic on stage."

Kurt looked deep into Blaine's eyes and smiled. "Thank you. It was a pretty good debut."

"The best," Blaine insisted. He gently sucked Kurt's lower lip into his mouth, running his tongue across its smooth surface, encouraging Kurt to open up for a fuller, deeper kiss. After a few moments, he broke away and rolled back on his side, propping his head on his hand to stare into those mesmerizing blue eyes. "Can you believe it's been – what – ten months since we moved here? We're going to have to start planning a celebration for our anniversary."

Kurt smiled, light dancing in his eyes. "I had no idea you were so sentimental."

"Only when it comes to you," Blaine said sincerely. He began tracing patterns up and down Kurt's chest and arms, pausing to rub several slow, loving circles along the ragged, shiny scar on his bicep. "Your arm was such a mess under the makeup that day. I'm glad you at least let me wash it our and bandage it up before we left for the shuttle that day."

Kurt hummed his agreement to the ceiling. "It hurt like such a bitch when you pressed on it. And I was so worried you were going to smudge it and Santana would be able to tell."

"You really are an incredible actor. You didn't even flinch."

"Lot's of practice, Blaine," Kurt chuckled dismissively. "Lot's of practice."

Blaine continued to massage the scar on Kurt's arm. Softly he said, "You almost fooled me into thinking you sent a look-alike in your place."

Kurt covered Blaine's hand with his own, stilling its movement. "Really? You never told me that before."

"I didn't want to upset you."

Kurt laced their fingers together and pulled Blaine's hand toward his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of his hand. "And I've always just thought you and I were completely in sync that day. I had no idea you had doubts. I'm – I'm sorry. That must have been hard for you."

"It was," said Blaine. "Waiting for all of those days with Santana picking away at me, planting doubts in my head. And then you came and you were dressed so plainly and you acted so strange…"

"When did you figure it out?" Kurt asked.

"Santana was yelling and I realized I was clenching my fists," Blaine reclaimed his hand from Kurt's grip to act out the memory. "I hadn't cut my fingernails in a while and they left marks on my palms. I was trying to calm myself down and I was rubbing the welts – and that's when I noticed the makeup on my thumb."

"And you didn't say anything," Kurt said, impressed.

Blaine shrugged. "I didn't know what the hell was going on. But I realized you must have been covering up the wound and that you _wanted _Santana and Brittany to think it wasn't you. But honestly, even then I wasn't really sure. It was something you said about not being like bottle caps or ants – "

"That even androids evolve and have our own memories. That we matter," Kurt said, remembering. "You taught me that."

"I know," Blaine said simply. "And I know that you were saying that for my benefit, not Santana's." Blaine shifted, resting his head on Kurt's chest. He listened to his heartbeat and inhaled the warm scent of him, his line of vision rising and falling with Kurt's even breaths.

What he remembered most vividly about that night was the palpable fear, forming a ball in his throat and nearly choking him. Not even taking the time to search Kurt's face for clues, he ran for the stairs at top speed, dragging Kurt behind him by their linked hands. They spoke no words in Blaine's apartment as he rushed to clean and dress Kurt's wound and find him a long sleeved shirt to wear under his protective overcoat. Blaine hadn't even texted Tina to say he was leaving until they were in the line to get on the shuttle. He didn't even indulge in a proper breath until takeoff.

It wasn't until they were safely ensconced in their New New York hotel that Blaine scratched out a hurried note on a pad emblazoned with the hotel logo. _Is it safe to talk?_

Kurt had thrown his arms around him in a tight hug, laughed and lifted Blaine's feet off the floor to swing him around in a circle. "It's safe. We're here and the chip with the listening device is still in Seattle. In fact," he said, putting Blaine back down with a huff and taking a step back, his hands on Blaine's shoulders, "I planted the device in Carson's arm. Sue thinks he's me, so she'll have no reason to come looking for us." He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, keeping a firm grip on Blaine's shoulders and shaking them back and forth. "She thinks that I'm still there with her and that we sent you off to Mars with an imposter just to get rid of you."

"Do you really think Carson can pull it off? Fooling Sue into thinking he's you?" Blaine asked. "She's pretty shrewd. Unless being a good actor is just built into every Nexus-6 of your subtype."

"No, just me," said Kurt. "Carson really is more of a journalist, but he has the drive to do anything it takes to get the story. Including acting, blackmail and deceit."

"But drive can only get him so far if he has no ability – "

"He wasn't built with that ability, but I tweaked his mechanics – increased his acting ability, fused my memories into his, that sort of thing," Kurt said matter-of-factly.

"How did you – "

"Apparently Burt Hummel's son was an excellent android mechanic. And I have his memories. So I used them."

"You're amazing," Blaine sighed, peppering Kurt's face with kisses.

Now, nearly ten months later, Blaine smiles into Kurt's chest, remembering the relief of that moment. And during those months between that night and this one, Blaine had many moments of reassurance that he had made the right decision in moving to Mars to start a new life with Kurt. The ease with which he secured his first gig as a singer in a lounge bar and the modest success he already has experienced in his new career. Kurt's own success, first with small parts in a few low-end productions, and then as a star in a popular play. The joy he experienced when they first toured their new building, buzzing with the happy sounds of people, every apartment occupied. Every time he took Kurt out – to a restaurant, a dance club, or even the hotel room that first night in New New York – and no one even raised an eyebrow in their direction. And there were so many private moments with Kurt – like this one.

Blaine spent a few moments trying to imagine Kurt fitting into his old life on Earth – living in his apartment, keeping a low profile, hoping Blaine made it home alive from his next bounty hunting assignment. His thoughts drifted to Brittany and Santana and he hoped they were doing well. Despite the tension of their last conversation, Blaine felt a kinship with the other human-android pair. He realized that something was puzzling him and he sat up again so he could see Kurt's face as he asked, "Do you think it would have made a difference if Santana knew that it was really you?"

Kurt pursed his lips and nodded. "Santana's a wild card. She's angry and spiteful and jealous of anyone else's good fortune. I couldn't trust her. Or Brittany." Blaine opened his mouth to protest, but Kurt hurriedly continued. "I mean, Brittany is very sweet. I don't think she harm anyone on purpose. And I think she's really good for Santana – they even each other out. But Brittany's a special, with _mental _degeneration . Who knows what she might let slip if Sue ever got suspicious and started questioning her."

"But doesn't it ever bother you that Santana thinks you're an imposter?" Blaine asked sincerely. "It definitely bothers me. And she thinks I'm a cold-hearted bastard who only wanted you for one thing."

"Well isn't that true?" Kurt teased, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards in a lop-sided smile.

"Why, you – " Blaine huffed out in mock anger, grabbing a pillow and smacking it across Kurt's chest.

"Hey!" yelled Kurt, his arm held protectively over his face as he tried in vain to dodge Blaine's repeated blows while he reached behind himself for the other pillow. He managed one good smack of the pillow on the top of Blaine's head before Blaine snatched both pillows and tossed them across the room. He grabbed Kurt's wrists before he could land a blow with one of his flailing arms. Kurt yanked his arms toward the mattress and sent Blaine tumbling on top of him, then deftly flipped them over and kissed him again and again through between their snorts of laughter.

The giggling slowed and the kisses grew less frantic as they both caught their breath. "But seriously," Kurt continued, as though the pillow fight had never happened, "I don't understand why you're worried about how Santana sees you or me." He sighed. "I guess that's the difference between androids and people. We don't have to work so hard not to care about what other people think. It's one of our advantages."

"That would be rather freeing," Blaine said. After a moment he asked, "Do you ever wonder how Carson is doing?"

"I figure he's doing well, since we haven't heard anything. Though I guess we'll only really know when – or if – his exposé gets published."

"I still can't believe you were willing to let him do that," Blaine said. "Especially after you were so careful with Santana and Brittany."

"Well, it would have been hard to convince him to trade places with me otherwise," Kurt said with a shrug. "He always wanted to be a journalist. And it's a pretty spectacular story. Androids killing humans and escaping to Earth, bounty hunters hired by the police to kill escaped androids, the Sylvester-Hummel Association colluding with the police to kill or otherwise disable bounty hunters – all in the quest to make a product indistinguishable from genuine human beings? Who am I to deny the world a story like that?" Kurt grinned. "Besides, I wasn't lying when I told you I wanted revenge on Sue."

"But if that story ever comes out," Blaine said nervously, "the first thing the Association will do is come after us."

"I doubt it," Kurt replied. "After all, he's using my name. Sue is going to think that I wrote the exposé and that you're off gallivanting around Mars with some Kurt look-alike. There's no reason in the world for her to come after us. Now Carson might be in a bit of trouble, but I doubt that will stop him from going after his dream of breaking a huge story like this. Besides, I'm sure his recently acquired acting ability and his quick wit will help him find a way to stay safe."

"I suppose it's poetic justice," Blaine said thoughtfully.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I'm sure Sue had no idea that when she gave you the original Kurt Hummel's memories, you would someday use his mechanical knowledge to engineer her downfall."

"It's downright diabolical," Kurt said proudly. "What I really enjoyed though was the surgery I did to implant the microchip in him. I had all my tools with me, unlike when I gave myself that abomination." He indicated the scar, his nose wrinkling in distaste.

"I love that scar," Blaine said, rubbing it reverently and pressing a kiss to the shiny skin. "It's what helped me realize it really was you." Suddenly serious, Blaine said, "Kurt? Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," Kurt said lightly. "Anything."

"Do you love me?"

Kurt averted his eyes and sighed. "Why are you asking _me _about _that_?"

"You just said I could ask anything."

"So I did," he said. Kurt stared into the distance for a moment, then said, "I don't think I can _feel _love the same way that you do, Blaine." He looked back at him and asked, "What does it feel like to you?"

"Euphoria."

"Well, I certainly felt euphoria when you did that thing with your tongue – "

"_Kurt_," Blaine scolded. "I'm not talking about sex. I mean that whenever I look at you, or think about you, my heart expands. I feel light on my feet. I feel like I could do anything, be anyone, just because you're with me." Blaine searched Kurt's eyes. "Don't you understand?"

Kurt stared at him blankly for a few beats too long and Blaine pushed him away, turning over and burying his face in his arms with an exasperated sigh.

"No, no, don't hide. Blaine," Kurt admonished, jabbing long thin fingers into Blaine's bicep until he lifted his head, his eyes just peeking out over his arm. "Don't I act like I love you?"

"Oh great," Blaine sighed. "Here we go again with how Kurt Hummel deserves all the acting awards, not just for his incredible debut on New Broadway, but for every waking moment of his life – "

"Anderson," Kurt cuts him off.

"What?"

"You have to remember to call me Kurt Anderson. It's safer that way."

Blaine grumbled into his arms.

Kurt laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "And no, that's not what I meant about acting. I meant that I think of love as an action, not as a feeling. Sharing the same feelings that you do – that's impossible for me. But I can act. Love for me – it's – it's me listening to every draft of every song you write and trying to provide kind and honest feedback every time. It's me coming to all of your shows, even when I was tired from my rehearsals and had to get up early the next morning. It's me literally ripping my flesh apart to protect you from Sue Sylvester."

Blaine blinked back the threatening tears and quipped, "Well, that one you did mostly for yourself."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Of course I'm going to act in my own self-interest. And in my own self-interest, I picked you over all those other guys."

"Other guys?" Blaine asked, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I had been planning my escape for a long time," Kurt said.

"You had other opportunities?"

"Of course," Kurt said. "I've even had a guy outright ask me to run away to Mars with him. He asked when I had the chip in my arm and I knew Sue was listening in, so I had to say no. But it wouldn't have worked anyway."

"Why not?"

"He wasn't you."

Blaine frowned. "What does that even mean?"

Kurt bit his lip and looked out the window for a moment, before fixing his gaze back on Blaine. "It means I needed the right person. It wouldn't have done me any good to come all the way to Mars with someone just to be treated like chattel. I needed to find someone who I could get along with reasonably well." Kurt grinned wickedly and added, "someone I found attractive." His paused, and his grin melted away. He stroked Blaine's cheek slowly and reverently, as though his very skin was the most precious treasure to be found on two planets. "Most importantly, I needed to find someone who saw me as a person – an equal."

"We talked about memories," Blaine said slowly, "at the hotel in San Francisco."

"Yes," Kurt said, searching Blaine's eyes. "You told me that I matter."

"You do," Blaine said softly. They kissed, a slow and gentle exploration of lips before breaking apart to gaze into each other's eyes.

"Blaine?"

"Yes, Kurt?"

"I'm so glad it was you."


End file.
